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■■ 'H 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 

• “ THE OHEYALIER.” 



BY CHARLESLEVEE, 

A V, 

AUTHOR OF 


“CHARLES O’MALLEY,” “GLENCORE,” “THE DODD FAMILY ABROAD, »» 
“SIR JASPER CAREW,” “MAURICE TIERNAY,” &c. 


NEW YOKK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 




-? 



I . 




L Gsaao 


( 





vtW) 


CHARLES LEVER'S NOVELS. 


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4 



GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“THE CHEVALIER” 


BOO 

CHAPTER I. 

THE thieves’ corner. 

At the foot of the hill on which stands the 
Campidoglio at Rome, and close beneath the 
ruins that now encumber the Tarpeian rock, 
runs a mean-looking alley, called the Viccolo 
D’Orsi, but better known to the police as the 
“Viccolo dei Ladri,” or “ Thieves’ Corner” — 
the epithet being, it is said, conferred in a spirit 
the very reverse of calumnious. 

Long and straggling, and too narrow to ad- 
mit of any but foot-passengers, its dwellings 
are marked by a degree of poverty and desti- 
tution even greater than such quarters usually 
exhibit. Rudely constructed of fragments taken 
from ancient temples and monuments, richly- 
carved architraves and finely-cut friezes are to 
be seen embedded amid masses of crumbling 
masonry, and all the evidences of a cultivated 
and enlightened age mingled up with the squal- 
or and miseiy of present want. 

Not less suggestive than the homes them- 
selves are the population of this dreary district ; 
and despite rags, and dirt, and debasement, 
there they are — the true descendants of those 
who once, with such terrible truth, called them- 
selves “Masters of the World.” Well set-on 
heads of massive mould, bold and prominent 
features, finely-fashioned jaws, and lips full of 
vigor and sensual meaning, are but the base 
counterfeits of the traits that meet the eye in 
the Vatican. No effort of imagination is need- 
ed to trace the kindred. In every gesture, in 
their gait, even in the careless ease of their 
ragged drapery, you can mark the traditionary 
signs of the once haughty citizen. 

With a remnant of their ancient pride, these 
people reject all hired occupation, and would 
scorn, as an act of slavery, the idea of labor ; 
and, as neither trade nor calling prevails among 
them, their existence would seem an inscruta- 
ble problem, save on the hypothesis which dic- 
tated the popular title of this district. But 
without calling to our aid this explanation, it 
must be remembered how easily life is support- 
ed by those satisfied with its meanest require- 
ments, and especially in a land so teeming with 
abundance. A few roots, a handful of chest- 
nuts, a piece of black bread, a cup of wine. 


K I. 

scarcely more costly than so much water, the-'TG 
are enough to maintain existence ; and in their 
gaunt and famished faces you can see that little 
beyond this is accomplished. 

About the middle of this alley, and over a 
doorway of sculptured marble, stands a small 
statue of Vesta, which, by the aid of a little 
paint, a crown of gilt paper, and a candle, some 
pious hands had transformed into a Madonna. 
A little beneath this, and on a black board, 
scrawled with letters of unequal size, is the 
word “ Trattoria,” or eating-house. 

Nothing, indeed, can be well farther from the 
ordinary aspect of a tavern than the huge vault- 
ed chamber, almost destitute of furniture, and 
dimly lighted by the flame of a single lamp. 
A few loaves of coarse black bread, some wick- 
er-bound flasks of common wine, and a wooden 
bowl containing salad, laid out upon a table, 
constituting all that the place affords for enter- 
tainment. Some benches are ranged on either 
side of the table, and two or three more arc 
gathered around a little iron tripod, supporting 
a pan of lighted charcoal, and over which now 
two figures are to be seen cowering down to the 
weak flame, while they conversed in low whis- 
pers together. 

It is a cold and dreary night of December; 
the snow has fallen not only on the higher Ap- 
ennines, but lies thickly over Albano, and is 
even seen in drifts along the Campagna. The 
wailing wind sighs mournfully through the 
arches of the Colosseum and among the col- 
umns of the old Forum, while at intervals, with 
stronger gusts, it sweeps along the narrow al- 
ley, wafting on high the heavy curtain that 
closes the doorway of the Trattoria, and leav- 
ing its occupants for the time in total darkness. 

Twice had this mischance occurred; and 
now the massive table is drawn over to the 
door, to aid in forming a barricade against the 
storm.. 

“ ’Tis better not to do it. Fra Luke,” said a 
woman’s voice, as the stout friar arranged his 
breastwork. “You know what happened the 
last time there was a door in the same'place.” 

“Never mind, Mrs. Mary,” replied the other; 
“ they’re not so ready witliiheir knives as they 
used to be, and, moreover, there’s few of them 
will be out to-night.” 


6 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


Both spoke in English, and with an accent 
which told of an Irish origin ; and now, as they 
reseated themselves beside the brazier, we have 
time to observe them. Faint as the flicker of 
that flame is, it is enough to show that the 
woman belongs not to the land where now we 
see her. Scarcely above forty years of age, but 
looking older from the effects of sorrow, her 
regular features and deeply-set eyes bear traces 
of once beauty. Two braids of rich brown hair 
have escaped beneath her humble widow’s cap, 
and fallen partly over her cheeks, and, as she 
tries to arrange them, her taper and delicately- 
formed fingers, even more strongly still, pro- 
claim her of gentle blood ; her dress is of the 
coarsest woolen stuff worn by the peasantry, 
but liitle cuffs of crape show how, in all her 
poverty, she had endeavored to maintain some 
semblance to a garb of mourning. The man, 
whose age might be fifty-seven or eight, is tall, 
powerfully built, and, although encumbered by 
the long dress of a friar, shows in every motion 
that he is still possessed of considerable strength 
and activity. The closely-cut hair over his 
forehead and temples give something of coarse- 
ness to the character of his round full head; 
but his eyes are mild and gentle-looking, and 
there is an unmistakable good-nature in his 
large and thick-lipped mouth. 

If there is an air of deference to his compan- 
ion in the way he seats himself a little distance 
from the “brazier,” there is, more markedly 
still, a degree of tender pity in the look that he 
bestows on her. 

“I want to read you the petition, Mrs. 
Mary,” said he, drawing a small sci’oll of paper 
from his pocket, and unfolding it before the 
light. “ ’Tis right you’d hear it, and see if 
mere’s any thing you’d like different — any 
thing mispleasing you, or that you’d wish left 
out.” She sighed heavily, but made no an- 
swer. He waited for a second or two, and then 
resumed, “’Tisn’t the like of me — a poor friar, 
ignorant as I am — knows well how to write a 
thing of the kind, and, moreover, to one like 
him; but maybe the time’s coming when you’ll 
have grander and better friends.” 

“Oh, no! no!” cried she, passionately; 
“not better. Fra Luke — not better; that they 
can never be.” 

“Well, w'ell, better able to serve you,” said 
he, as though ashamed that any question of 
himself should have intruded into the discus- 
sion ; “and that they may easily be. But 
here’s the writing ; and listen to it now, for it 
must be all copied out to-night, and ready for 
to -morrow' morning. The cardinal goes to him 
at eleven. There’s to be some grandees from 
Spain, and maybe Portugal, at twelve. The 
Scottish lords come after that ; and then Kelly 
tells me he’ll see any that likes, and that has 
letters or petitions to give him. That's the 
time for us, then ; for ye see Kelly doesn’t like 
to give it himself : he doesn’t know what the 
^Prince would say, and how he’d take it; and 
natural enough, he’d not wdsh to lose the favor 


he’s in by any mistake. That’s the word he 
said, and sure enough it sounded a strange one 
for helping a friend and a countrywoman ; so 
that I must contrive to go myself, and God’s my 
judge, if I wouldn’t rather face a drove of the 
wild cattle out there on the Campagna, than 
stand up before all them grand people!” The 
very thought of such an ordeal seemed too much 
for the poor friar, for he wiped his forehead 
with the loose cuff of his robe, and for some 
minutes appeared totally lost in reflection ; with 
a low sigh he at last resumed: “Here it is, 
now ; and I made it short, for Kelly said, ‘ if 
it’s more than one side of a sheet, he’ll never 
look at it, but just say “ Another time, my good 
friend, another time. This is an affair that re- 
quires consideration ; I’ll direct Monsignore to 
attend to it.” When he says that, it’s all over 
with you,’ says Kelly. Monsignore Bargalli 
hates every one of us — Scotch, English, and 
Irish alike, and is ahvays belying and calumni- 
ating us ; but if he reads it himself, there’s a’l- 
ways a chance that he may do something, and 
that’s the reason I made it as short as I could.” 

With this preface, he flattened out the some- 
Avhat crumpled piece of paper, and read aloud: 

“ ‘ To his Royal Highness the Prince of 
Wales, the true-born descendant of the House 
of Stuart, and rightful heir to the Crown of En- 
gland, the humble and dutiful petition of Mary 
Fitzgerald, of Cappa-Glyn, in the county Kil- 
dare, Ireland — ’ 

“Eh, Avhat?” cried he, suddenly; for a 
scarcely audible murmur proclaimed something 
like dissent or correction. 

“I w'as thinking. Fra Luke,” said she, mild- 
ly, “ if it wouldn’t be better not to say ‘ of Cappa- 
Glyn.’ ’Tis gone aw'ay from us now forever, 
and — and — ” 

“What matter; it was your’s once. Your 
ancestors owned it for hundreds and hundreds 
of years ; and if you’re not there now, neither 
is he himself where he ought to be.” 

The explanation seemed conclusive, and he 
went on : 

“‘County Kildare, Ireland. Ay! May it 
please your illustrious royal highness, the only 
sister of Grace Geraldine, now in glory with the 
saints, implores your royal flrvor for the orphan 
boy that survives her. Come from a long way 
off, in great distress, mind and body, she has no 
friend but your highness and the Virgin Mary 
— that was well known never deserted nor for- 
sook them that stood true to your royal cause 
— and being in want, and having no shelter nor 
refuge, and seeing that Gerald himself, with the 
blood in his veins that he has, and worthy of 
being what your royal highness knows he is.’ 

“ That’s mighty delicately expressed, ye see ; 
not to give offense,” said the friar, with a most 
complacent smile at his dexterity. 

“ ‘Hasn’t as much as a rag of clothes under 
his student’s gown, nor a pair of shoes, barring 
the boots that the sub-rector lent him ; wdtlioUt 
a shirt to his back, or a cross in his pocket; 
may at a minute’s warning be sent aw>»y from 


‘THE CHEVALIEK.’* 


7 


the college, by reason of his great distress — 
having no home to go to, nor any way to live, 
but to starve and die in nakedness, bringing 
everlasting disgrace on your royal house, and 
more misery to her who subscribes herself in 
every humility and contrite submission, your 
royal highness’s most dutiful, devoted, and till 
death release her from sorrows, ever attached 
servant, Mary Fitzgerald.’” 

“I didn’t put any address,” said the Fra, 
“for, you see, this isn’t one of the genteelest 
quarters of the tovm. Here they are, Mrs. 
Mary — here they are!” cried he, suddenly, and 
Vv^hile he spoke, the hasty tramp of many feet, 
and the discordant voices of many people talk- 
ing noisily, was heard from without. 

“ Sangue dei Santi!” shouted a rude voice, 
“is this a fortress we have here, or a public 
tavern ?” and, at the same instant, a strong 
hand seized the table in the doorway and over- 
whelmed it on the floor. 

' The fellow who thus made good his entrance, 
was tall and muscular, his stature seeming even 
greater from the uncouth covering of goat-skins, 
which in every conceivable fashion he wore 
around him, while in his hand he carried a long 
lance, terminating with a goad, such as are used 
by the cattle-drivers of the Campagna. 

“A hearty reception, truly. Signora Maria, 
you give your customers,” cried he, as he strode 
into the middle of the chamber. 

“It was a barriei; against the storm, not 
against our friends — ” 

“Ha! you there. Fra Luke!” shouted the 
other, interrupting him, while he burst out into 
a fit of coarse laughter. “Who could doubt 
it, though ? wherever there’s a brazier, a Avine- 
shop, and a pretty woman, there you will find a 
Frate ! But come in, lads,” added he, turn- 
ing once more toward the doorway ; “here are 
only friends — neither spies nor Swiss among 
them.” 

A ragged group of half-starved wretches came 
now forward, from one of whom the first speaker 
took a small leathern portmanteau that he car 
ried, and threw it on the table. 

“A poor night’s work, lads,” said he, un- 
strapping the leather fastenings around it ; “ but 
these travelers have grown so wary now-a-days, 
it’s rare to pick up any thing on the Campag- 
na; and what Avith chains, bolts, and padlocks 
around their luggage, you might as well strive 
to burst open the door of the old Mamertine 
Prison yonder. There’s no money here, boys 
— not a baiocco — nor even clothes, nothing but 
papers. Maladizione be on those Avho ever 
taught the art of Avriting! — it serves for noth- 
ing but to send braA'e men to the galleys.” 

“ I kneAV he was a courier,” said a small de- 
crepit-looking man, Avith a long stiletto stuck 
in his garter, “and that he could have nothing 
of any use to us.” 

“AAvay Avith the trunk, then; throAV it OA'er 
the parapet into the ditch, and make a jolly 
blaze with the papers. Ah, Signora Maria, 
time Avas Avhen a guidatore of the Campagna 


seldom came back at night Avithout his purse 
filled Avith sequins. Many a gay silk kerchief 
have I given a SAveetheart, ay, and many a gold 
trinket, too, in those days. Cattle - driving 
Avould be but a poor trade, if the Appian Way 
didn’t traverse the plain.” While he spoke he 
continued to feed the flame Avith the papers, 
Avhich he tore and threAV on the burning char- 
coal. “Heap them on the fire, Fra, and don’t 
lose time spelling out their meaning. You get 
such a taste for learning people’s secrets at the 
confessional, you can’t restrain the passion.” '' 

“If I mistake not,” said Fra Luke, “these 
papers are Avorth more than double their weight 
in gold. They treat of very great matters, and 
are in the writing of great people.” 

“Per Bacco ! they shall neAxr bring me to 
the galleys, that I’ll swear,” cried the herds- 
man. “Popes and Princes Avould fret little 
about me when they gained their ends. There, 
on Avith them. Fra. If I see you steal one of 
them inside those loose robes of yours, by the 
blood of the martyrs, I’ll pin it to your side Avith 
my poniard.” 

“You mangy, staiwed hound of a goatherd,” 
cried Fra Luke, seizing the masshx iron tongs 
beside him ; “do you think it’s one of your- 
selves I am, or that I have the same cowardly 
heart, that can be frightened because you Avear 
a knife in your sleev'e. May I never see glory, 
if I Avouldn’t clear the place of you all Avith 
these ould tongs, ay, and hunt every mother’s 
son of you down the alley.” The sudden spring 
foi’Avard as he said this, seeming to denote an 
intention of action, so appalled his hearers that 
they rushed simultaneously to the door, and, in 
all the confusion of terror, fled into the street, 
the herdsman making use of all his strength to 
cleave his Avay through the rest. 

“Think of the Vendetta, Fra Luke! They 
never forgiA'e !” cried the Avoman, in a voice of 
anguish. 

“Faix, it’s more of the police. I’m thinking, 
Mrs. Mary,” said the friar. “ You’ll see, them 
felloAA's Avill be off noAv, to bring the SAviss guard. 
Burn the papers as fast as you can; God knows 
Avhat mischief AA'e’re doing, but we can’t help it. 
Oh, dear ! isn’t it a sin and a shame ? Here’s a 
letter, signed Alberoni, the great Cardinal in 
Spain. Here’s tAVO in English, and Avhat’s the 
name — Watson, is it? No; Wharton, the 
Duke of Wharton, as I liA^e ! There, fan the 
coals ; quick, there’s no time to lose. Oh, 
dear, Avhat’s this about Ireland ! I must read 
this, Mrs. Mary, come Avhat may. ‘ Cromarty 
says that the P regrets he didn’t try Ire- 

land in place of Scotland. Kelly persuadea 
him that the Irish Avould never have abandoned 
his cause, for any consideration for themselves 
or their estates.’ That’s true, any how,” cried 
the Fra. “ ‘ And that as long as he only Avant- 
ed rebellion, and did not care to make them 
loyal subjects, the Irish Avould stand to him to 
the last.’ Faix, Kelly’s right!” murmured the 
Fri>. “‘The Scotch, besides, groAV weary of 
civil war, and desire to have peace and order | 


8 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


while the otlicrs think fighting a government 
the best diversion at all, and would ask for 
nothing better than its continuance. For these 
reasons, and another that is more of a secret, 
the Prince is sorry for the choice he made. As 
to the secret one : there was a certain lady, of 
good family, one of the best in the Island, they 
say, called Grace Fitzgerald — ’ ” 

A shriek from the woman arrested the Fra at 
this instant, and with a spring forward, she tore 
the paper from his hand to read the name. 

“What of her — what of Grace?” cried she, 
in a voice of heart-rending anxiety. 

“ Be calm, and I’ll read it all, Mrs. Mary. It 
was God’s will, may be, put this into our hands 
to-night. There, now, don’t sob and agitate 
yourself, but listen. ‘ She followed him to 
France,’ ” continued he, reading. 

“ She did — she did !” burst out the other, in 
a passion of tears. 

“‘To France, where they lived in re- 
tirement, at the Chateau de Marne, in Brittany. 
Kelly says they were married, and that the 
priest who solemnized the marriage was a neph- 
ew of Cardinal Tencin, called Danneton, or Ban- 
neton, but well known as Father Ignatius, at the 
Seminary of Soissons. To his own dishonor and 
disgrace, and perhaps to his ruin also, this hap- 
py union did not long continue. He was jeal- 
ous at first ; at last he neglected her. Be this 
as it may, Godfrey Moore, and O’Sullivan broke 
with him forever, on her account; and Rutt- 
ledge tore his patent of Baron to pieces, and 
swore, to his face, that one who could be so 
false to his love, could be little relied on in his 
friendship.’ ” 

“Who writes this. Fra Luke? Who knew 
these things so well ?” cried the woman. 

“It is signed ‘R. W.,’ and dated from An- 
cona, something more than ten years back. The 
remainder treats of money matters, and of names 
that are new to us. Here is the postscript : 
‘You are right in your estimate of him — too 
right; still I am inclined to think that Kelly’s 
influence has worked more ill than all his mis- 
fortunes. They drink together all day, and 
even his brother can not see him without his 
permission ; and if you but saw the man — 
coarse, low-minded, and ill-educated, as he is 
— so unlikely in every way to have gained this 
ascendency over one of cultivated taste and re- 
finement; but Kinloch said truly, “What have 
your Royal Highness’s ancestors done, that God 
should have cursed you with such companion- 
ship!” To what end, then, this new plan — 
this last attempt to avert failure? I’ll go, if I 
must, but it will be only to expose myself to the 
.same impertinences as before.’ 

“ I wish I could make out his name, or even 
to whom it was addressed; but it is only in- 
scribed ‘ G. H., care of Thomas Foster.’ Is 
that any one coming, Mrs. Mary?” 

“ No, it’s only the wind ; it often sounds like 
voices moaning through those old corridors,” 
sOtid the woman, sorrowfully. “You’ll keep 
that letter safe. Fra Luke ?” 


“That I will, Mrs. Mary. I’ll put it now 
with the rest, in that old iron box in the wall 
behind the chimney.” 

“But if we should have to leave this?” 

“Never fear. I’ll take care to have it where 
we can come at it.” He paused for a second 
or so, and then said, “Yes, you can’t stay here 
any longer ; you must go at once, too.” 

“Let it be, then, to some spot where I can 
see him,” cried she, eagerly. “I’ve borne the 
misery of this gloomy spot for years back, just 
because that each day he passes near my door. 
Down the Capitoline, to the old Forum, is their 
walk ; and how my heart beats as I see the dark 
procession winding slowly down the hill, till my 
eyes rest on him — my own dear Gerald. How 
proudly he steps in all his poverty! — how sor- 
rowful in his youth! What would I not suffer 
to speak to him — to tell him that I am the sis- 
ter of his mother — that he is not all forgotten or 
forsaken, but that through long days and nights 
I sit to think on him.” 

“But you know this can not be, as yet.” 

“ I know it — I know it,” cried she, bitterly. 
“It is not to a home of crime and infamy — to 
such pollution as this — I would bring him. Nor 
need this any longer be endured. The slavery 
is now unrecompensed. I can earn nothing. 
It is four months since I last sent him a few 
pauls.” 

“Come, come, do not give way thus; to- 
morrow may be the turn to better fortune. Ask 
of the Virgin to aid us — pray fervently to those 
who see our need, and hope — ay, hope, Mrs. 
Mary, for hope is faith.” 

“ My heart grows too cold for hope,” said she, 
with a faint shudder ; and then, with a low 
“good-night,” she lighted the little lamp that 
stood beside her, and ascended the narrow stairs 
to her room, while the Fra proceeded to gather 
up the papers that lay scattered about; which 
done he listened for a while, to ascertain that 
all was quiet without; and then, drawing his 
cowl over his head, set out for his humble horns 
—a small convent behind the Quirinal. 


CHATTER 11. 

THE LEVEE. 

For many a year after the failure of the Ja- 
cobite expedition — long after all apprehension 
from that quarter had ceased to disturb the mind 
of England — the adherents of Charles Edward, 
abroad, continued to plot, and scheme, and plan, 
carrying on intrigues with nearly every court of 
Europe, and maintaining treasonable intercourse 
with all the disaffected at home. It would, at 
first sight, seem strange that partisans should 
maintain a cause which its chief had virtually 
abandoned as hopeless ; but a little consideration 
will show us that the sympathy felt by foreign 
Governments for the Stuarts was less based on 
attachment to their house, than a devotion to the 
religious principles of which they were the as- 


“THE CHEVALIEK.” 


9 


sertors. To Catholiciz3 England was the great 
object at heart — to crush that heresy, whose right 
of private judgment was as dangerous to despot- 
ism as to bigotry — this was a cause far too por- 
tentous and important to he forsaken for any 
casual check or momentary discouragement. 
Hence, for years after the hopes of the Pretend- 
er’s friends had died out in Scotland, his foreign 
followers traversed the Continent on secret mis- 
sions in every direction, exerting at times no 
slight influence even in the cabinets we believed 
to be best aflected toward us. 

There was, it is true, nothing in the state of 
Europe generally, nor of England itself, to revive 
the hopes of that party. Of the adherents to the 
Stuart cause, the stanchest and the best had paid 
the penalty of their devotion ; some were exiles, 
and some, like Lord Lovatt, had purchased safety 
by dishonor, but scarcely one was tobe found ready 
to peril life and fortune once more in so barren 
an enterprise. None, indeed, expected that “the 
_king should have his own again,” but many 
thought that the claim of a disputed succession 
might he used as a terrible agency for disturbance 
and the cause of a dethroned monarch be made 
an admirable rallying-point for Catholic Europe. 
These intrigues were carried on in every court 
of the Continent, hut more especially at Eome 
and Madrid, between which two capitals the 
emissaries of the Prince maintained a close and 
frequent intercourse. 

With all the subtlety of such crafty counsel- 
ors, every question of real moment was transact- 
ed in the strictest secrecy, but all trivial and un- 
important affairs were blazoned forth to the world 
with a degree of display that seemed to court 
publicity. In this way, for instance, every event- 
ful era of the Stuart ffimily was singled out for 
observance, and the ceremonies of the Church 
were employed to give the epochs a due solemni- 
ty. It is to an occasion of this kind we would 
now invite our reader’s presence — no less a one 
than the birthday of Charles Edward. 

From an early hour on the morning of the 
20th December, 178 — , tlie court-yard of the Al- 
tieri Palace Avas a scene of unusual stir and 
moA^ement. Country carts, loaded Avith orange- 
trees and rare plants from the conservatories of 
the princely villas around Rome, great baskets 
of flowers — bouquets which had cost a tAvelve- 
month’s care to bring to perfection — Avere un- 
packing on every side, Avhile delicious fruits and 
Avines of extreme rarity Avere among the offer- 
ings of the auspicious day. Servants in the 
well-known livery of every noble house, passed 
and repassed, and the lodge of the porter AA'as 
besieged by crowds, Avhose rank not entitling 
them to be presented, Avere still desirous of testi- 
fying by their names their respect for the exiled 
majesty of England. The street front of the 
])alace Avas decorated Avith gorgeous hangings 
from all the Avindows, some emblazoned Avith the 
armorial insignia of royalty, some Avith the em- 
blems of different orders of knighthood, and 
some simply Avith the fleur-de-lis or the cross of 
St. AndrcAV. A guard of honor of the Pope’s 


Swiss stood at the gate, and two trumpeters, Avitli 
tAVO heralds in full costume, were mounted on 
Avhite chargers Avithin the arched entrance, ready, 
Avhen the clock struck eleven, to proclaim the 
birthday of the king of England. 

For years back the occasion had been mere- 
ly marked by a levee, at Avhich the Prince’s per- 
sonal friends and folloAvers AA^ere joined by a few 
cardinals and one or tAvo of the elders among 
the noble families ; but noAV, from some unex- 
plained reason, a greater display Avas made, and 
an unusual degree of splendor and preparation 
shoAved that the event Avas intended to be sin- 
gled out for peculiar honor. Pickets of dra- 
goons, stationed at intervals through the neigh- 
boring streets, also shoAved that measures were 
taken to secure public tranquillity, and prevent 
the inconA’-enience that might arise from OA^er- 
croAvded thoroughfares. That such precautions 
Avere not unneeded, the dense mass of people 
that now crowded the streets already shoAved. 

FeAV, indeed, of the assembled multitude 
kneAV the meaning of the ceremonial before 
them. To most, the name of England Avas 
like that of some fabulous dream-land. Others 
clearly saw some vassalage to the Pope in this 
temporary display of royalty; a yet smaller 
number looked on Avith compassionate sorroAv 
at this solemn mockery of a state so unreal and 
unsubstantial. Meamvhilc, a certain cautious 
reserA^e, a degree of respectful quiet, pervaded 
all the arrangements Avithin the palace. The 
AvindoAvs of the apartments occupied by the 
Prince Avere still closed, and the noiseless tread 
of the serA’ants, as they passed in that direction, 
showed the fear of disturbing him. For aboA^e 
a year back Charles EdAvard had been suffering 
severely from ill health. Tavo attacks of apo- 
plexy, one folloAving' quickly on the other, had 
left him Aveak and debilitated, while from the 
abandonment of his habits of dissipation, en- 
forced by his physician, there ensued that Ioav 
and nerA'ous condition, the inA’ariable penalty 
exacted from debauchery. 

He had liA'ed of late years much secluded 
from society, passing his time in the company 
of a fcAV intimates Avhose character and station 
Avere, indeed, but ill adapted to his rank. Of 
these, the chief Avas a certain Kelly, an Irish- 
man, and a friar of the order of Cordeliers, Avith 
Avhom the Prince had become acquainted in his 
Avanderings in Spain, and by Avhose influence 
he first greAv attached to habits of Ioav dissipa- 
tion. Kelly’s recommendations to favor Avere 
great personal courage, high animal spirits, and 
a certain dashing recklessness, that even to his 
latest hour had a fascination for the mind of 
Charles Edward. Perhaps, hoAvever, there Avas 
nothing in Kelly’s character which so much dis- 
posed the Prince toAvard him, as the confidence 
— real or pretended — Avith which he looked for- 
Avard to the restoration of the exiled family, 
and the return of the Stuarts to the throne of 
England. The prophecies of Nostradamus and 
the predictions of Kelly fostered hopes that sur- 
viA'cd CA’cry discomfiture, and survived Avhen 


10 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


there was really not even a chance for their ac- 
complishment. This friar had become, in fact, 
though not formally, the head of the Prince’s 
household, of Avhich he affected to regulate the 
expenditure and watch over the conduct. The 
reckless waste, however, that prevailed ; the in- 
subordination of the servants ; and the utter dis- 
organization of every thing, were far from be- 
ing complimentary to his administrative powers. 

The income of the Prince was small and pre- 
carious. The sums contributed by Spain came 
irregularly and late. The French contingent 
w'as scarcely better paid. The Roman portion 
alone could be relied upon to maintain the cost 
of a household, which, for its ill management 
and profusion was the scandal of the city. 
There were many rumors current of Kelly’s 
financial resources — traits of joecuniary strategy 
which might have shamed a Chancellor of the 
Exchequer ; but these, of course, w^ere difficult 
to prove, and only natural to prevail on such a 
subject. Although there is abundant evidence 
of the man’s debasement and immorality, it is 
equally well known that he amassed no Avealth 
in the service of the Prince. We haA'e been 
somewhat prolix in this reference to one Avho is 
not a chief figure in our picture, but Avithout 
Avhom any sketch of the Pretender’s household 
Avould be defecth^e. The Fra Laurentio, as he 
AA'as called, Avas indeed a person of importance, 
nor AA^as any name so often uttered as his on the 
eventful morning avc have referred to. 

Soon after ten, a certain movement in the 
streets, and the appearance of the dragoons Avav'- 
ing back the populace, showed that the visitors 
AA'ere about to arrive ; and at last a stately old 
coach, containing some officials of the Pope’s 
household drove into the court-yard. This Avas 
quickly folloAved by the judges of the superior 
courts and the secretaries of the tribunals, to 
Avhom succeeded a long line of Roman nobles, 
their sombre equipages broken occasionally to 
the eye by the scarlet panels of a cardinal, or 
the emblazoned hammercloth of a foreign em- 
bassador. Despite the croAvd, the movement, 
the glitter of uniform, and the gorgeous glare 
of costume, there Avas an air of indescribable 
gloom in the Avhole procession. There Avas 
none of that gorgeous courtesy, that look of 
pleasure, so associated Avith the trace of a royal 
birthday ; on the contrary, there Avas an appear- 
ance of depression — almost of shame — in the 
faces of the principal persons, many seeming to 
shrink back from the gaze and retire from the 
chance mention of their names by the people 
in the street, as they ])assed. 

Among those Avho Avatched the proceedings 
Avith a more than common interest, Avas a large 
burly man in the broAvn robe of a Carthusian, 
and Avhose bald, bare head overtopped the sur- 
rounders. Closely stationed near the gate, he 
had formed an acquaintance Avith a stranger 
Avho seemed familiar Avith almost every face 
that came by. The friar Avas our fidend Fra 
Luke; and truly bis bluff, honest features, his 
clear blue eye, and frank broAA', Avere no* un- 


pleasing contrast to the treacherous expressions, 
and gaunt, salloAV cheeks on either side of him. 
Fcav of the names Avere familiar to the honest 
Carthusian ; and it is but truth to say, that he 
heard of the great Spanish diplomatist, Guada' 
laraxa, the Avily Cardinal Acquavesia, and the 
intriguing envoy. Count Boyer, Avithout a par- 
ticle of interest in them ; but when his inform- 
ant whispered, “There goes the Earl of Dun- 
bar, that salloAV-faced man in deep mourning; 
that, yonder, is the Irish chieftain, O’Sullivan,” 
then the friar’s eyes brightened, and his Avhole 
countenance gleamed Avdth animation and ex- 
citement. This faithful adherent to the Stuart 
cause Avas noAv in his eighty-seA^enth year, but 
still carried himself erect, and walked Avith the 
measured step of an old soldier; his three-cor- 
nered hat, trimmed Avith ostrich feathers, and 
Avide-skirted blue coat, turned up with red, re- 
calling the time of Louis XIV., of Avhose court 
be had once been a distinguished ornament. 
Soon after him came Mac Kiel of Barra, a tall, 
hard-visaged man, but Avhose muscular figure 
and well-knit limbs Avere seen to great adA'an- 
tage in the full dress of a highland chieftain. 
He AA^as preceded by the piper of his clan, and 
a henchman, Avith a pistol, on full cock, in his 
hand, Avalked after him. A feAv of lesser note, 
many of Avhom exhibited unmistakable signs of 
narroAv fortune, came after these. It Avas a 
group Avhich had gone on diminishing each year, 
and noAA', by the casualties of death, sickness, 
and exile, had dAvindled doAvn at last to scarce- 
ly a dozen ; and CA'en of these feAA', it aa^s plain 
to see, some Avere offering the last homage they 
Avere ever like to render on earth. 

Equipage after equipage rolled into the court ; 
and although a A'ast number had noAV arrh’ed, 
the rumor ran that the AvindoAvs of the Prince’s 
apartment Avere still closed, nor AA'as there any 
sign of preparation in that part of the palace. 
The A'ague doubts and surmises Avhich prevailed 
among the croAvd Avithout were shared in by the 
guests assembled Avithin doors. Gathered in 
knots, or Avalking sloAvly along through the vast 
salo7is, they conA'ersed in Ioav whispers together 
— noAv stopping to listen for any thing that might 
indicate the approach of the Prince, and then 
relapsing into the same muttered conA'ersation 
as before. So estranged had Charles EdAA'ard 
liA'ed latterly from all his former associates, that 
it Avas in v'ain to ask for any explanation from 
those whose titles implied the duties of his 
household ; and Keith, Murray, Mac Kiel, and 
Upton frankly avoAved that they Avere as great 
strangers Avithin those Avails as any of those Avho 
noAv came to offer their formal compliments. 
Kelly alone, it would seem, by the frequent 
mention of his name, could account for the 
Prince’s absence ; and yet Kelly Avas not to be 
found. 

Ill regulated and ill ordered as were all the 
arrangements of that household, there seemed 
something beyond all bounds in this neglect of 
fitting courtesy ; and many did not scruple to 
say aloud how deeply they felt the insult. A t 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


one moment they half resolved on deputing a 
message to the chamber of the Prince ; at an- 
other they discussed the propriety of departing 
in a body. Various opinions were given as to 
the most fitting course to follow ; in the midst 
of which, their debate was interrupted by the 
hoarse flourish of trumpets without, and the 
loud-voiced proclamation by the heralds, “that 
his Majesty of England had entered in his fifty- 
second year.” A faint cheer — the tribute of 
the careless crowd in the street — and a salvo of 
cannon from the Quirinal, closed the ceremony, 
and all was still — so still tliat for some seconds 
not a word was heard in those thronged and 
crowded salons. 

“Ma foi,” cried Count Boyer, at last, “I 
suppose we may go home again. Not ours the 
fault if our duty has not been offered with suf- 
ficient respect.” 

“ JMy master,” said the Spanish envoy, haugh- 
tily, “ will probably think my patience but little 
deserving of his praise.” 

“And I,” said a German Baron, all covered 
with decorations, “have brought this letter of 
gratulation from the Margrave of Baden, and, 
for aught I see, am like to carry it back to his 
Serene Highness.” 

“As for me,” said Count Bjosterna, the Swed- 
ish minister, “1 serve a master who never brook- 
ed an insult ; and lest this should become such, 
Idl take my leave.” 

“Not so. Messieurs,” cried O’Sullivan, step- 
ping forward, and placing himself in front of the 
door. “You have come here to pay my mas- 
ter, the king of England, certain marks of your 
respect. It is for him to choose the time he will 
accept of them. By heaven ! not a man of you 
shall leave this till his good pleasure in that mat- 
ter be known.” 

“Well said, O’Sullivan,” said General Up- 
ton, grasping the old man’s hand ; while Mac 
Niel and some other chieftains pushed forward 
and ranged themselves before the door in solemn 
silence. 

“Nay, nay, gentlemen,” interposed the Car- 
dinal-Secretary, Gualtieri — a man whose vener- 
able appearance commanded universal respect ; 
“this would be most unseemly on every hand. 
We are all here animated by one feeling of sin- 
cere deference and attachment to a great prince. 
There may be good and sufficient reasons why 
he has not received our homage. It would ill 
become us to inquire into these. Not enough 
for us that our intentions are those of respectful 
duty ; we must mark, by our conduct, that we 
appreciate the rank of him to whom we offer 
them.” To these words, uttered aloud, he add- 
ed something in a whisper to the principal per- 
sons at either side ; and, seeming to yield to his 
instances, they fell back, while O’Sullivan, bow- 
ing respectfully to the cardinal, in token of ac- 
quiescence, moved slowly away followed by the 
chieftains. 

This little incident, as may be supposed, con- 
tributed nothing to remove the constraint of the 
scene; and an almost unbroken stillness now 


prevailed, when at length a carriage was seen 
to drive from the court-yard. 

“ There goes Mon signore Alberti,” said Count 
Boyer. “ Where the secretary of the Pope gives 
the initiative, it is surely safe to follow. My 
duty is paid.” And so saying, and with a deep 
obeisance to all at either side of him, he passed 
out. The Spanish minister followed ; and now 
the whole assemblage gradually moved away, so 
that in less than an hour, except O’Sullivan, 
Mac Niel, and a few highland chieftains of lesser 
note, the salons deserted, and none remain- 
ed of all that crowded mass which so late had 
filled them. 

“One might be tempted to say that there was 
a curse upon this cause,” said Mac Niel, stern- 
ly, as he threw himself down into a seat, “Who 
ever saw a morning break with brighter hopes ; 
and see, already scarcely an hour past the noon, 
and they are all gone — wafted to the winds.” 

“No, no, Mac Niel,” said O’Sullivan, grave- 
ly ) “ yon are wrong, believe me ; these butter- 
flies knew well that it was only a gleam of sun- 
shine, not a summer. The hopes of the Stuarts 
are gone forever.” 

“ Why are you here, then, if you think so ?” 
cried the other, impetuously. 

“For that very reason, sir. I feel as you 
and all these gentlemen here do — that fidelity 
is a contract made for life.” 

“They were the luckiest that closed that ac- 
count first,” muttered one of the lairds, half 
aloud. “ By my saul, Culloden wasn’t colder 
lying than the Campagna.” 

“ Come along, we may as well follow the rest,” 
said Mac Niel, rising. “ Will you dine with us, 
O’Sullivan ? Mac Allister and Brane are com- 
ing.” ^ . 

“No, Mac Niel. I have made this annivers- 
ary a day of fasting for many a year back. I 
took a vow never to taste meat or wine on this 
festival, till I should do so beneath the king’s 
roof, in his own land.” 

“Ye’re like to keep a black Lent o’ it, then,” 
muttered the old laird, with a dry laugh, and 
shuffled along after his chieftain, as he led the 
way toward the door. 

O’Sullivan waited till they had gone ; and 
then, with a sad glance around him, as if like a 
leave-taking, left the palace, and turned home- 
ward. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE ALTIERI PALACE. 

In a large and splendid chamber, whose 
only light was a small lamp within a globe of 
alabaster, Charles Edward lay, full-dressed, 
upon his bed. His eyes were closed, but his 
features did not betoken sleep ; on the contra- 
ry, his flushed cheek told of intemperance, and 
the table, covered with wine-decanters and 
glasses, beside him, confirmed the impression. 
Ilis breathing was thick and labored, and ccca- 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


12 

sionally broken by a dry, short cough. There 
was, indeed, little to remind one of the hand- 
some chevalier in the bloated face, the heavy, 
hanging jaws, and the ungainly figure of him 
who, looking far older than his real age, now 
lay there. Though dressed with peculiar care, 
and covered with the insignia of several orders, 
his embroidered vest was unbuttoned, and 
showed the rich lace of his jabot, stained and 
discolored by wine. A splendidly ornamented 
sword lay beside him, on which one hand rest- 
ed, the fingers tremulously toucliing the rich- 
ly-embossed hilt. Near the foot of the bed, on 
a low, well-cushioned chair, sat another figure, 
whose easy air of jocularity and good-humored, 
sensual countenance Avas a strong contrast to 
the careworn expression of the Prince’s face. 
Dressed in a long, loose robe of wdiite cloth, 
which he wore not ungracefully, his well-round- 
ed legs were crossed negligently in front of him, 
'and his hands clasped with an air of quiet and 
happy composure, that seemed to realize the 
picture of a jolly friar, well-to-do and content- 
ed ; an^ such was George Kelly, the very type 
of happy, self-satisfied sensuality. If a phre- 
nologist would have augured favorably from the 
noble development of forehead and temples, the 
massive back-head and widely-spreading occi- 
put would have quickly shown that nature had 
alloyed every good gift with a counterpoise of 
low tastes and bad passions, more than enough 
to destroy the balance of character. 

“Who's there? Who’s in waiting?” mut- 
tered the Prince, half aloud, as if suddenly 
arousing himself. 

“Kelly — only Kelly,” answered the friar. 

“Then the wine is not finished, George, eh? 
that’s certain ; the decanters are not empty. 
What hour is it?” 

“As well as I can see, it wants a few min- 
utes of five.” 

“Of five! of five! Night or morning, 
Avhich ?” 

“Fh'e in the evening. I believe one might 
venture to call it night, for they’re lighting the 
lamps in the streets already.” 

“W’hat’s this here for, George?” said the 
Prince, lifting up the sword. “We’re not go- 
ing to Bannockburn, are we ? Egad ! if Ave be, 
I trust they’ll gh'e me a better Aveapon. What 
nonsense of yours is all this?” 

“ Don’t you remember it Avas your Majesty’s 
birth-day, and that you dressed to receive the 
ministers?” 

“To be sure I do ; and Ave did receive them, 
George, didn’t Ave ? Have I not been drinking 
loyal toasts to pvery monarchy of Europe, and 
Avishing Avell to those Avho need it not ? Fifty- 
one, or fifty-tAvo, Avhich are Ave, George?” 

“Faith, I forget,”' said Kelly, carelessly; 
“but, like this Burgundy, quite old enough to 
be better.” 

“ The reproach comes aa'cII from you, you old 
reprobate ! Whose counsels have made me 
Avhat I am ? Bolingbroke AA’arned me against 
you, many a long year back. Atterbury kncAV 


you, too, and told me Avhat you Avere. By 
Heaven!” cried he, Avith a Avilder energy, “it 
AA’as that very spirit of dictation, that habit of 
prescribing to me Avhom to knoAV, Avhere to lean, 
Avhat to say, and Avhat to leaA'e unsaid, has 
made me so rash and headstrong through life. 
A felloAv of your caste had otherwise obtained 
no hold upon me ; a loAV-bred, illiterate drunk- 
ard — ” 

A hearty burst of laughing from Kelly here 
stopped the speaker, Avho seemed actually over- 
Avhelmed by the cool insolence ^f the friar. 

“LeaA’’e me, sir; leave the room!” cried 
Charles EdAvard, haughtily. “ Let Lord Nairn 
— no, not him; let Murray of Blair, or Kinloch, 
attend me.” 

Kelly never stirred, nor uttered a Avord, but 
sat calm and motionless, Avhile Charles, breath- 
ing heaA'ily from his recent outburst of passion, 
lay back, half-exhausted, on the bed. After a 
fcAv minutes, he stretched out his hand and 
caught his wine-glass ; it Avas empty, and Kelly 
filled it. 

“I say, George,” cried he, after a pause, “it 
must be growing late ; shall Ave not have these 
people coming to our levee, soon ?” 

“They’A’e come and gone, sire, six hours 
ago. I Avould not permit your Majesty to be 
disturbed for such a pack of false-hearted syco- 
phants ; the more, that they sent such insolent 
messages, demanding, as a right, to be received, 
and asking hoAv long they AA^ere to Avait your 
royal pleasure.” 

“Did they so, George ? Is this true ?” 

“ True as Gospel. That Spaniard, with the 
red-broAvn beard, came eA'cn to your Majesty’s 
antechamber, and spoke so loud I thought he’d 
have aAvoke you ; nor Avas Count Boyer much 
better mannered — ” 

“Come and gone!” broke ig Charles. 
“What falsehoods Avill groAv out of this ! You 
should haA'e told me, Kelly. Health, ease, 
happiness — I’d have sacrificed all to duty. 
Aye, George, kings have duties like other men. 
Were there many here?” 

“I never saAv one-half the number. The 
carriages filled the Corso to the Piazza del Po- 
polo. There Avas not a minister absent.” 

“And of our OAvn people?” 

“They AA'ere all here. O’Sullivan, Barra, 
Clangavin — ” 

“ Where was Tullybardine ? Ah ! I forgot,” 
broke in Charles, with a deep sigh. “ ‘ Here’s 
to them that are gone,’ George, as the old song 
says. Did they seem dissatisfied at my ab- 
sence ? — hoAv did you explain it ?” 

“I said your Majesty Avas indisposed; that 
state affairs had occupied you all the preceding 
night, and that you had at last fallen into a 
slumber.” 

“Was Glengariff among them ?” 

“ You forget, sire. We buried him six Aveeks 
ago.” 

“To be sure aa-c did. Show me that glass, 
George — no, the looking-glass, man — and light 
those tapers yonder.” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


13 


Kelly obeyed, but with an evident reluctance, 
occupying time, so as to withdraw the other’s 
attention from his project. This stratagem did 
not succeed, and Charles waited patiently till 
his orders were fulfilled, when, taking the mir- 
ror in his hand, he stared long and steadfastly 
at the reflection of his features. It was sever- 
al minutes .before he spoke, and when he did, 
the voice was tremulous and full of deep feeling. 

“George, I am sadly changed ; there is but 
little of the handsome Chevalier here. I didn’t 
think to look like this these fifteen years to 
come.” 

“ Faith ! for one who has gone through all 
that you have, I see no such signs of wear and 
tear,” said Kelly. “ Had you been a Pope or 
a Cardinal — had you lived like an Elector of 
Hanover, with no other perils than a bare head 
in a procession, or the gouty twinges of forty 
years’ ‘ sauer kraut’ — ” 

“ Keep your coarse ribaldry for your equals, 
sirrah. Let there be some, at least, above the 
mark of your foul slander,” cried Charles, an- 
grily ; and then, throwing the looking-glass 
from him, he fell back upon his bed like one 
utterly exhausted. Kelly, who knew him too 
well ever to continue an irritating topic, but 
leave quietly alone the spirit that forgot even 
more rapidly than it resented, sipped his wine 
in silence for some minutes. “This day, six- 
teen years ago, I breakfasted in Carlisle, at the 
house of a certain Widow Branards. It’s strange 
how I remember a name I have never heard 
since,” said Charles, in a voice totally altered 
from its late tone of excitement. “ Do you 
know, Kelly, that it was on the turn of a straw 
the fate of England hung that morning ? Kep- 
poch had cut his hand with the hilt of his clay- 
more, and instead of counseling — as he ever did 
— a forward movement, he joined those Avho ad- 
vised retreat. Had we gone on, George, the 
game was our own. There is now no doubt on 
the matter.” 

“ I have always heard the same,” said Kelly ; 
“and that your Majesty yielded with a pro- 
found conviction that the counsel was ruinous. 
Is it true, sire, that O’Sullivan agreed with 
your majesty ?” 

“Quite true, George; and the poor fellow 
shed tears — perhaps for the only lime in his life 
— when he heard that the decision was given 
against us. Stuart of Appin, and Kerr, w6te 
of the same mind ; but Diis aliter visum, 
George. We turned our back on Eortune that 
morning, and she never showed us her face 
after.” 

“You are not forgetting Ealkirk, surely?” 
said Kelly, who never lost an opportunity of 
any flattering allusion to the Pretender’s cam- 
paigns. 

“ Falkirk was but half what it ought to have 
been. The chieftains got to quarrel among 
themselves, and left Hawley to pursue his re- 
treat unmolested ; as the old song says, 

‘The turnkey spat in the jailer’s face, 

While the prisoner ran away 1’ 


And now they are all gone, George — gone 
where you and I must meet them, some day ; 
not a far-off one, maybe.” 

“O’Sullivan Avas here to-day, sire, to wish 
your Majesty long life and happiness ; and the 
old fellow looked as hearty and high-spirited as 
ever. I saw him as he passed out of the court- 
yard, and you’d have guessed, by his air and 
step, that he was a man of forty.” 

“ He’s nigh to eighty-five, then, or I mistake 
me.” 

“Life’s strong in an Irishman — there’s no 
doubt of it,” cried Kelly, enthusiastically; 
“there’s no man takes more out of prosperity, 
nor gives way less to bad fortune.” 

“What’s that song of your’s, George, about 
Paddy O’Flynn — isn’t that the name ?” said the 
Prince, laughing. “Let’s have it, rrian.” 

“You mean Terry O’Flynn, sire,” said Kel- 
ly; “and, faith, ’twould puzzle me to call to 
mind one verse of the same song.” 

“ Do you even remember the night you made 
it, George, in the little wayside shrine, eight 
miles from Avignon ? I’ll never forgelf the as- 
tonished faces of the two friars that peeped in, 
and saw you, glass in hand, before the fire, 
chanting that pleasant melody.” 

‘ ‘ The Lord forgive you ; ’tis many a bad 
thing you led me into,” said Kelly, with affect- 
ed sorrow, as he arose and walked to the Avin- 
dow; meanAvhile the Prince, in a low kind of 
murmuring voice, tried to recall some words of 
the song. “Talking of friars,” said Kelly, 
“there’s a thumping big one outside, with his 
great face shining like the dial of a clock. I’m 
much mistaken if he’s not a countryman of my 
own !” 

“ Can he sing, George ? Has he the gift of 
minstrelsy, man ?” 

“ If your Royal Highness would like to hear 
the canticles, I’m sure he’d oblige you. Faith, 
I was right ; it’s poor Luke Mac Manus — a 
simple, kind-hearted creature, as ever Ih^ed. I 
remember now, that he asked me AVhen it was 
possible to see your Royal Highness ; and I told 
him that he must put doAvn into AATiting what- 
CA'er he wanted to say, and come here Avith it 
on the 20th; and sure enough, there he is 
noAV.” 

“ And why did you tell him any such thing, 
sir?” said the Prince, angrily. “What are 
these petitions but demands for aid that we 
have not to bestoAV — entreaties Ave can not sat- 
isfy? Are Ave not pensioners ourselves? ay, 
by the Lord Harry, are we, and beggarly enough 
in our treatment too. None knoAV this better 
than yourself. Master Kelly. It is not ten day* 
since you pawned my George. Ay, and, by 
the way, you never brought me the money. 
What do you say to that ?” 

“I received tAventy-four thousand francs, 
sire,” said Kelly, calmly; “eighteen of which 
I paid, by your Royal Highness’s order, to the 
Countess.” 

“I never gaA'e such an order — AA^here is 
it?” 


14 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“ Spoken, sire, in the words of a prince ; and 
heard by one who never betrayed him,” said 
the friar, quietly — “the Countess herself” — 

“No more of this, sir. We are not before a 
court of justice. And now let me tell you, Kel- 
ly, that the town is full of the malversation of 
this household ; and that however proverbial 
Irish economy and good management be in its 
own country, climate and change of air would 
seem to have impaired its excellence. My 
brother tells me that our waste and extrava- 
gance are public town talk.” 

“ So much the better, sire — so much the bet- 
ter!” 

“What do you mean by that, sirrah?” cried 
the Prince, angrily. 

“Your Royal Highness has heard of Alcibi- 
ades, and why he cut the tail off his dog ! 
Well, isn’t it a comfort to think that they never 
say worse of us here than that we spend freely 
what’s given grudgingly ; and that the penury 
of others never contaminated the spirit of your 
Royal Highness ?” 

“Have a care, sir,” said the Prince, with 
• more dignity than he had shown before ; 

‘ ‘ there will come a day, perhaps, when we 
may grow weary of this butfoonery.” 

“I’m sorry for it, then,” replied Kelly, una- 
bashed; “for when it does, your Royal High- 
ness will iust bo as little pleased with wis- 
dom.” 

It was thus alternately flattering and outrag- 
ing Charles Edward — now insinuating the ex- 
istence of qualities that he had not — now dis- 
paraging gifts which he really possessed — that 
this man maintained an influence which others 
in vain tried to obtain over the Prince. It was 
a relief, too, to find one whose pliancy suited 
all his humors, and whose character had none 
of that high-souled independence which anima- 
ted his Scottish followers. Lastly, Kelly never 
asked favors for himself or for others. Enough 
for him the privilege of the intimacy he enjoy- 
ed. He neither sought nor cared for more. 
Perhaps, of all his traits, none weighed more 
heavily in his favor than this one. It was, 
then, in a kind of acknowdedgment of this sin- 
gle-mindedness that the Prince, after a pause, 
said, 

“ Let your countryman come up here, George. 
I see he’s the only courtier that remains to us.” 

Kelly rose without a word, and left the room 
to obey the command. 

Little as those in waiting on the Prince were 
ever disposed to resist Kelly in any proceeding, 
they W'ere carried very nearly to insubordina- 
tion, as they saw him conducting through the 
long line of salons the humbly-clad, barefooted 
friar, who, with his arms reverently crossed on 
his breast, threw stealthy glances, as he passed, 
at the unwonted splendor around him. 

“ I hope, sir,” said Fra Luke, respectfully, 
“that your kindness to a poor countryman 
won’t harm yourself ; but if ever you were to 
run the risk, ’tis an occasion like this might ex- 
cuse it.” 


“What do you mean?” said Kelly, hastily, 
and staring him full in the face. 

“ Why, that the petition I hold hero is about 
one that has the best blood of Ireland in his 
veins; but maybe, for all that, if you knew 
what was in it, you mightn’t like to give it.” 

Kelly paused for a few seconds, and then, as 
if having formed his resolution, said, 

“If that be the case, Luke, it is better that I 
should not see it. There’s no know'ing wLen 
my favor here may come to an end. There’s 
not a morning breaks, nor an evening closes, 
that I don’t expect to hear I’m discarded, 
thrown off, and abandoned. Maybe it would 
bring me luck if I w’^as to do one, just one good 
action, by w^ay of a change, before I go.” 

“ I hope you’ve done many such alb re now',” 
said Luke, piously. 

Kelly did not repl}', but a sudden change 
over his features told how acutely the v/ords 
sank into his heart. 

“ Wait for me here a minute,*” said he ; and 
motioning to Luke to be seated, he passed 
noiselessly into the chamber of the Prince. 


CHAPTER lY. 

THE PELNCE’s CHAMEEK. 

Brief as Kelly’s absence had been, it wras 
enough to have obliterated from the Prince’s 
mind all the reasons for his going. No sooner 
was he alone than he drank away, muttering 
to himself, as he filled his glass, snatches of 
old Jacobite songs — w'ords of ho]^ and encour- 
agement ; or, at times, with sad and broken 
utterance, phrases of the very deepest despond- 
ency. 

It was in this half-dreamy state that Kelly 
found him as he entered. Scotland — Rome — 
the court of France — the chateau at St. Ger- 
mains — the shealing where he sought refuge in 
Skye — the deck of the French privateer that 
landed him at Brest — w'cre, by turns, the scenes 
of his imagination ; and it was easy to mark 
how, through all the windings of his fancy, an 
overweening sense of his own adventurous char- 
acter upheld and sustained him. If he called 
up at times traits of generous devotion and 
loyalty — glorious instances wherein his follow- 
ers rose to the height of heroes — by some artful 
self-complacency he was ever sure to ascribe 
these to the great cause they fought for; or, 
oftener still, to his own commanding influence 
and the fascination of his presence. In the 
midst of all, how'cver, w’ould break forth some 
traits that bespoke a nobler nature. In one of 
these was it that he alluded to the proposition 
of Cardinal Tencin, to make the cession of Ire- 
land the price of the French adhesion to his 
cause. “No, no. Monsieur le Cardinal,” cried 
he several times, energetically ; “tout ou rien I 
tout ou rien ! Must not my cause have been a 
poor one, when he dared to make me such an 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


15 


offer? Av, Kellv, ami I swear to you he did 
so!” 

These last words were the first that showed 
a consciousness of the other’s presence. 

“ The Dutchman was ' better than that, 
George, eh? — a partition of the kingdom! — 
never, never. Ireland, too ! The very men 
who stood truest to me — the very men who 
never counseled retreat. Think of Lovatt, 
George. If you had but seen him that day. 
He could not bide the time I took to eat a mor- 
sel of breakfast, so eager was he to be rid of 
me. I laughed outright at his impatience, and 
said that he remembered but the worst half of 
the old Highland adage which tells you ‘ to 
speed the parting guest.’ He never offered me 
a change of linen, George, and I had worn the 
same clothes from the day before Culloden. 
‘ Waes me for Prince Charlie !’ ” 

“It’s a proud thing for me to hear how you 
speak of my countrymen, sire,” said Kelly. 

‘ ‘ Glorious fellow's they were, every man of 
them !” cried the Prince, with enthusiasm. 
“Light-hearted and buoyant, when all others 
looked sad and dow'ncast; ahvays counseling 
the bold course, and readier to do than say it ! 
I never met — if I ever heard of — but one Irish- 
man who was not a man of honor. lie was 
enough, perli^jj^ to leaven a whole nation — 
a low, i^ean sycophant, cowardly, false, and 
foul-ton gued ; a fellow 40 . belie you and betray 
you — to track you into ^evil that others might 
stj?5f'e at you there. I nef^r thought ill of man- 
kind till I knew him. Do you know whom I 
mean — %h, George ?” 

“Faitfl^if the portrait be not intended for 
myself, I am 'at a loss to guess,” said Kelly, 
good-humoredly. 

“ So it is, you arch-scoundrel ; and, shame- 
less though you be, does it never occur to you 
how you Avill go down to posterity ? The cor- 
rupter of a Prince ; the fellow' who debauched 
and degraded him ! ” 

“Isn’t it something that posterity will ever 
hear of me at all?” said Kelly. “Is it not 
fame, at any rate ? If there should be any rec- 
ords of our life together, who know'S but a clev- 
QT commentator will find out that but for me 
and my influence the Prince of Wales would 
have been a downright beast : ‘ that Kelly hu- 
manized your Royal Highness, kept you from 
all the contamination of cardinals and scheming 
Monsignori, rallied your low spirits, comforted 
your dark hours, and enjoyed your bright ones.’” 

“For what — for what ? what was his price ?” 
cried Charles, eagerly. 

“Because he felt in his heart that, sooner or 
later, you’d be back. King of England and Ire- 
land, and George Kelly wouldn’t be forgotten. 
No, faith ; Archbishop of Westminster! and devil 
a less I’d be : that’s the price, if you wish to 
hear it !” 

The Prince laughed heartily, as he ever did 
when the friar gave way to his impertinent hu- 
mor, and then, sitting up in his bed, told Kelly 
to order coffee. To his last hour, coffee seemed 


to exercise the most pow'erful effect on him, 
clearing his faculties after hours of debauch, 
and enabling him to apply to business at times 
when he appeared to be utterly exhausted. 
Kelly, who w'ell knew how to adapt himself to 
each passing shade of temperament, followed 
the Prince into a small dressing-room in si- 
lence, and remained standing at a short dis- 
tance behind his chair. 

“Tell Conway,” said he, pointing to a mass 
of papers on the table, “ that these must wait. 
I’ll go down to Albano to-morrow or next day, 
for a change of air. I’ll not hear of any thing 
till I return. Cardinal Altieri knows better 
than I do what Sir Horace Mann writes home 
to England. This court is in perfect under- 
standing with St. James’s. As to the countess, 
Kelly, let it not be spoken of again ; you hear 
me. What paper is that in your hand ?” 

“A petition, I believe, sire; at least, the 
quarter it comes from would so bespeak it.” 

“Throw it on the fire, then. Is it not 
enough to live thus, but that I must be remind- 
ed thirty, forty times a day of my poverty and 
incapacity ? Am I to be flouted with my fallen 
fortune? On the fire with it, at once !” 

“ Poor Luke’s prayers were offered at an un- 
timely moment,” said Kelly, untying the scroll, 
as if preparing to obey. “ Maybe, after all, he 
is asking for a new rosary, or a pair of sandals. 
Shall I read it, sire ?” 

The Prince made no reply, and Kelly, who 
thoroughly understood his humor, made no far- 
ther effort to obtain a hearing for his friend ; 
but, tearing the long scroll in two, he muttered 
the first line that caught his eye — 

“ ‘ Petition of Mary Fitzgerald.’ ” 

“What — of whom? Fitzgerald — what Fitz- 
gerald ?” cried Charles, catching the othei*’s 
wrist with a sudden grasp. 

“ ‘ Sister of Grace Geraldine.’ ” 

The words were not w’ell uttered when 
Charles snatched the paper from Kelly’s hand, 
and drew near to the lamp. 

‘ ‘ Leave me ; wait in the room without, Kel- 
ly,” said he ; and the tone of his voice implied 
a command not to be gainsaid. The Prince 
now flattened out the crumpled document be- 
fore him, holding the fragments close together ; 
but, although he bent over them attentively for 
several minutes, he made little progress in their 
contents, for drop by drop the hot tears rose to 
his eyes, and fell heavily on the paper. Grad- 
ually, too, his head declined, till at last it fell 
forward on the table, where he lay, sobbing 
deeply. It was a long time before he arose 
from this attitude ; and then his furrowed 
cheeks and glazed eyes told of intense sorrow. 

. “What ruin have I brought every where !” was 
the exclamation that broke from him, in a voice 
tremulous with agony. “Kinloch said truly: 
‘ We must have sinned heavily, to be so heavi- 
ly cursed!’” Again and again did he bend 
over the paper, and, few as were the lines, it 
was long before he could read them through, 
such was the gush of emotion they excited. 


16 


GEKALD FITZGERALD, 


“ Was there ever a cause sO hallowed by mis- 
fortune?” cried he, in an accent of anguish. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! Grace, had you been spared to me, I 
might have been other than this. But, if it 
were to be — if it were indeed fated that I should 
become the thing I am, thank God you have 
not lived to see it. George,” cried he, sudden- 
ly, “who brought this paper?” 

Kelly came at once at his call, and replied 
that the bearer was a poor friar, by name Mac 
Manus. 

“Let me see him alone,” said the Prince; 
and the next moment Fra Luke entered the 
chamber, and, with a low and deferential ges- 
ture, stooped down to kiss his hand. “You 
are an Irishman,” said Charles, speaking with 
a thick but rapid utterance; “from none of 
your countrymen have I met with any thing 
but loyalty and affection. Tell me, then, 
frankly, what you know of this paper — who 
wrote it ?” 

“I did, myself, your Royal Highness,” said 
Luke, trembling all over with fear. 

“Its contents are all true — strictly true?” 

“As the words of this holy book,” said Luke, 
jdacing his hand on his missal. 

“ Why were they not made known to me be- 
fore — answer me that?” cried Charles, angrily. 

‘ ‘ I’ll tell your Royal Highness why, ” replied 
Luke, who gained courage as he was put upon 
the defensive. * ‘ She that’s gone — the Heavens 
be her bed ! — made her sister promise, in her 
last hour, never to ask nor look for favor or 
benefit from your Royal Highness.” 

“I will not believe this,” broke in Charles, 
indignantly; “you are more than bold, sir, to 
dare to tell me so.” 

“’Tis true as Gospel,” replied the friar. 

‘ ‘ Her words were : ‘ Let there be one that went 
down to the grave with the thought that loving 
him was its best reward ! and leave me to think 
that I live in his memory as I used in his 
heart.’ ” 

The Prince turned away, and drew his hand 
across his eyes. 

“How came she here — since when?” asked 
he, suddenly. 

“Four years back; we came together. I 
bore her company all the way from Ireland, and 
on foot, too, just to put the child into the col- 
lege here.” 

“ And she has been in poverty all this while ?” 

“Poverty! faith, you might call it distress! 
— keeping a little trattoria in the Viccolo d’Orso, 
taking sewing, washing — whatever she could; 
slaving and starving, just to get shoes and the 
like for the boy.” 

“How comes it, then, that she has yielded 
at last to write me this?” said Charles, who, in 
proportion as his self-accusings grew more poig- ' 
nant, sought to turn reproach on any other 
quarter. 

“She didn’t, nor wouldn’t,” said the Fra; 
“’twas I did it myself. I told her that she 
might ease her conscience, by never accepting 
any thing ; that I’d write the petition and go 


up with it, and that all I’d ask was a trifle for 
the child.” 

“She loves him, then,” said Charles, tenderly. 

The friar nodded his head slowly twice, and 
muttered, “ God knows she does.” 

“And does he repay her affection ?” 

“How can he ? Sure he doesn’t know her ; 
he never sees her. When we were on the w'ay 
here, he always thought it was his nurse she 
was ; and from that hour to this, he never set 
eyes on her.” 

“What object was there for all this?” 

“Just to save him the shame among the rest, 
that they couldn’t say his mother’s sister was in 
rags and wretchedness, without a meal to eat.” 

“She never sees him, then?” 

“ Only when he walks out with the class, 
every Friday ; they come dowm the hill from the- 
Capitol, and then she’s there, watching to get 
a look at him.” 

“ And he — what is he like ?” 

The friar stepped back, and gazed at the 
Prince from head to foot, in silence, and then 
at length said: “He’s like a Prince, sorrow 
less ! The black serge gown, the coarse shoes, 
the square cap, ugly as they are, can’t disfigure 
him ; and though they cut off his beautiful hair, 
that curled half-w’ay dowmhis back, they couldn’t 
spoil him. He has the great dark-blue eyes of 
his mother, and the long lasjj.es, ajmost girlish 
to look at.” ^ ’ 

“ He’s mild and gentle, then ?” said Charles, 
pensively. ,, 

“Indeed, and I won(t tell you a lie,” said 
Luke, half mournfully, “but that’s just What I 
believe he isn’t. The sii^-rector says there’s 
nothing he couldn’t learn, eitR^intlie sciences 
or the humanities. He can write some of the 
ancient and three of the modern tongues. His 
disputations got him the medal; but some- 
how' — ” 

“Well — goon. Somehow — ” 

“He’s wild — wild,” said the friar, and as if 
he was glad to have found the exact word he 
w'anted ; “he’d rather go out on the Campagna 
there and ride one of the driver’s ponies all day, 
than he’d walk in full procession with all the 
cardinals. He’d like to be fighting the shep- 
herds’ dogs, wicked as they are ; or goading 
their mad cattle till they turn on him. Many 
a day they’ve caught him at that sport ; and, 
if I’m not mistaken, he’s in punishment now, 
though Mrs. Mary doesn’t know it, for putting 
a ram inside the rails of a fountain, so that the 
neighbors dursn’t go near to draw water. ’Tis 
diversions like these has made him as ragged 
and tattered as he is.” 

“Bad stuff for the cloister,” said Charles, 
with a faint smile. 

“ Who knows ? Sure Cardinal Guidotti w’as 
at every mischief when a boy ; and there’s Gar- 
doni, the secretary of the Quirinal, wasn’t he 
the terror of the city with his pranks?” 

“Can I see this boy — I mean, could he be 
brought here without his knowing or suspecting 
to w'hom he was presented?” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


17 


“ Snrc, if Kelly wns to ” 

“Ay, ay, 1 know as well as you do,” broke 
in the prince, “George Kelly has craft and 
cunning enough for more than that ; but sup- 
posing, my worthy Fra, that I did not care to 
intrust Kelly with this office : supposing that, 
for reasons known to myself, I wished this mat- 
ter a secret, can you hit upon the means of 
bringing the lad here, that 1 might see and 
speak with him ?” 

“It should be after dark, your Royal High- 
ness, or he would know the palace again, and 
then find out who lived in it.” 

“Well, be it so.” 

“Then, there’s the rules of the college; with- 
out a special leave a student can not leave the 
house ; and, even then, he must have a profes- 
.sor with him.” 

“A cardinal’s order would, of course, be 
sufficient,” said the Prince. 

“To be sure it would, sir,” said the friar, 
with a gesture that showed how implicitly his 
confidence was given to such a conjuncture. • 

“The matter shall be done then, and thus: 
on Tuesday next Kelly goes to Albano, and 
will not return till Wednesday or Thursday 
evening. At seven o’clock, on Tuesday even- 
ing, you will present yourself at the college, and 
ask for the president : you will only have to say 
that you ary cou^e for the youth Fitzgerald. 
He will be at once given into your charge ; 
drive then at once to the Corso, where you can 
leave the carriage, and pjpceed hither on foot. 
When you arrive here, you shall be admitted 
at once.^One only catnion I have to give you, 
friar, anum is this : ffipon your reserve and dis- 
cretion it whether I ever befriend this 

l)oy, or cast him oflf forever. Should one syl- 
lable of this interview transpire — should I ever 
discover that, under any pretense, or from any 
accident, you have divulged what has passed 
between us here — and discover it I must if it be 
so — from that instant I ceaso to take interest in 
him. I know your cloth Avell ; you can be se- 
cret if you will: let this be an occasion for the 
virtue. I need not tell you more ; nor will I 
add one threat to enforce my caution. The 
boy’s own fortune in life is on the issue ; that 
will be enough.” 

“Is Mrs. Mary to be intrusted with the se- 
cret?” said the Fra, timidly. 

“No; not now, at least.” The Prince sat 
down, and leaned his forehead on his hand in 
thought. At length he said, “The boy will 
ask you, in all likelihood, whither you are lead- 
ing him. You must say, that a countryman of 
his own, a man of some influence, and who 
knew hr? friends, desires to see and speak with 
him. That he is one with whom he may be 
frank and open-hearted ; free to tell whatever 
he feels; whether he likes his present life, or 
seeks to change it. He is to address me as the 
Count, and be careful yourself to give me no 
higher title. I believe I have said all.” 

“If Kelly asks me what was my business 
with your Koval Highness.” 

B 


“Ay; well thought of. Say it was a mat- 
ter of charity ; and take these few crowns, that 
you may show him as you pass out.” 

"‘‘Well, did you succeed?” asked Kelly, as 
the poor friar, flushed and excited from the 
emotion of his interview, entered the ante- 
chamber. 

“1 did, indeed ; and may the saints in heav- 
en stand to you for the same ! It’s a good work 
you done, and you’ll have your reward!” 

“ Egad,” cried Kelly, in a tone of levity, “it 
I had any friends among the saints I must have 
tried their patience pretty hard these last eight 
or nine years; but who is this Mary Fitzgerald 
— I just eaught the name on the paper?” 

“ She’s — she’s — she’s — a countrywoman of 
our own,” stammered out Fra Luke, while he 
moved uneasily from foot to foot, and fumbled 
with his hands up the sleeves of his robe. 

“It was lucky for you, then, we were just 
talking about Ireland before you went in. He 
was saying how true and stanch the Irish always 
! showed themselves.” 

“And does he talk of them times?” asked 
the Fra, in astonishment. 

“Ay, by the hour. Sometimes its breaking 
day before I go to bed, he telling me about all 
his escapes and adventures. I could fill a book 
with stories of his.” 

“Musha! but I’d like to hear them,” cried 
Luke, with honest enthusiasm. 

“Come up here, then — let me see what even- 
ing — it mustn’t be Tuesday — nor Wednesday 
— maybe, indeed, I won’t be back before Fri- 
day. Oh, there’s the bell now; that’s for vie,'' 
cried he ; and before he could fix the time he 
hurried off to the Prince’s chamber. 


CHAPTER V. 

“after dark.” 

It was a long and weary day to the poor 
friar, watching for that Tuesday evening when 
he should appear at the gate of the Jesuits’ Col- 
lege, and ask for the young Fitzgerald. He 
felt, too. as though some amount of responsibil- 
ity had been imposed on him to which he was 
unequal. It seemed to his simple intelligence 
as if it were a case that required skill and dex- 
terit3% The rector might possibly ask this, or 
wish to know that ; and then how was he to re- 
spect the secrecy he had pledged to the Prince? 
or was he to dare to deceive the great President 
of the College ? Supposing, too, all these diffi- 
culties over, what of the youth himself? How 
should he answer the inquiries he was certain 
to make — whither he was going — with what ob- 
ject — and to whom? Greater than all these 
personal cares was his anxiety that the boy 
should please his Royal Highness ; that the im- 
pression he made should be favorable ; that his 
look and bearing might interest the Prince, and 
insure his future advancement. Let us own 
that Fra Luke had his grave misgivings on this 


18 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


score. From all he could pick up through the 
servitors of the couveut, Gerald was a wild, 
headstrong youth, constantly “in punishment,” 
and regarded by the superiors as the great in- 
stigator of every infraction to the discipline of 
the college. “ What will a prince think of such 
an unruly subject?” was the sad question the 
simple-hearted friar ever posed to himself. 
“And if the rector only send a report of him, 
he’ll have no chance at all.” With this sor- 
rowful thought he brought his reflections to a 
close ; and, taking out his heads, set himself 
vigorously to implore the intercession of the 
saints in a cause intrusted to hands so weak and 
unskillful as his own. 

The grim old gate of the college, flanked 
with its two low towers, looked gloomy enough 
as the evening closed in. The little aperture, 
too, through Avhich questions were asked or an- 
swered, was now shut up for the night, and all 
intercourse with the world without suspended. 
The Fra had yet a full hour to wait, and he 
was fain to walk briskly to and fro, to warm his 
blood, chilled by the cold wind that came OA'er 
the Campagna. For a while the twiiikling of 
a stray light, high up in the building, set him 
a-thinking where the cell of the boy might be ; 
but gradually tliese disappeared, and all was 
wrapped in gloom and darkness, when suddenly 
the chapel became illuminated, and the rich, 
full swell of an organ toned out its solemn 
sounds on the still night. The brief prelude 
over, there followed one of those glorious old 
chants of the church which combine a strain of 
intense devotion with a highly exalted poetic 
feeling. In a perfect flood of harmony the 
sounds blended, till the very air seemed to hold 
them suspended. They ceased ; and then, like 
the softest melody of a flute, a young voice arose 
alone, and, soaring upward, uttered a passage 
of seraphic sweetness. It was as though the 
song of some angelic spirit, telling of hope and 
peace; and, as a long, thrilling shake concluded 
the strain, the loud thunder of the organ and the 
full swell of the choir closed the service. The 
moment after all Avas silent and in darkness. 

Bell after bell, from the great city beneath, 
tolled out seven o’clock; and Fra Luke knock- 
ed modestly at the gate of the college. His 
visit appeared to have been expected, for he 
Avas admitted at once, and conducted to the 
large hall, Avhich formed the Avaiting-room of 
the' college. The friar had not long to Avait; 
for scarcely had he taken his seat, Avhen the 
door opened, and young Fitzgerald appeared. 
Advancing with an easy air, and a degree of 
gracefulness that contrasted strangely Avith his 
poA'erty-struck dress, the boy said, “I am told 
you Avish to speak to me. Friar.” 

“ Are you Gerald Fitzgerald, my son?” ask- 
ed Fra Luke, softly. 

“Yes; that’s my name,” 

The Fra looked at the beaming face and the 
bright blue eyes, soft in their expression as a 
girl’s; and the dimpled cheek, over Avhich a 
slight flush Avas mantling, and Avondered to him- 


self can this be the Avild, reckless youth they 
call him ? — haA’e they not been calumniating 
that fine and simple nature? So deeply AA'as 
the Fra impressed Avith tliis sentiment, that he 
forgot to continue the interrogatory, and stood 
gazing Avith admiration on him. 

“Well,” said the boy, smiling good-humor- 
edly, “AA’hat is your business Avith me, for it is 
nigh bed-time, and I must be going?” 

“It Avas your voice I heard in the solo a few 
minutes ago,” cried the Fra, eagerly ; “I knoAv 
it Avas. It Avas you Avho sang the 

‘ Vii’go virginnm pi fcclara, 

Mihi jam non sis aniara?’ 

“Yes, yes,” said the youth, reddening. “But 
Avhat of that? You never came here to-night 
to ask me this question.” 

“True, true,” said the Fra, sighing painful- 
ly — less, indeed, at the rebuke than tlie hot- 
tempered tone of the boy as he spoke it. “I 
came here to-night to fetch you along Avith me, 
to see one aa’Iio AA’as a friend of your family long, 
long ago ; he has heard of you here, and wish- 
es to see and speak with you. He is a person 
of great rank and high station, so that you Avill 
shoAv him CA'cry deference, and demean your- 
self toAvard him respectfully and modestly; for 
he means you Avell, Gerald ; he Avill befriend 
you.” 

“But Avhat need haA-e I qf his ^-iendship or 
his good offices?” said tlie youth, groAvi,^ dead- 
ly pale as he spoke. “Look at this serge gOAvn 
— see this cap — they can tell you Avhat I am^les- 
tined to. I shall be a priest one of thesfee days. 
Fra ; and Avhat has a priest to do Avith ties of 
affection or friendship ?” 

“Oh! for the blessed Joseph’^? sake,” aa-Ims- 
pered the Fra, “be careful what you saA% 
These are terrible AAmrds to speak — and to speak 
them here, too,” added he, as he throAV his eyes 
over the Avails of the room. 

“Is this man a cardinal?” 

“No,” said the Fra; “he is a layman, and 
a count,” 

“ Better that ; had he been a cardinal, I’d 
not have gone. Whenev^er the old cardinal, 
Caraffa, comes here, I’m sure to have a Aveck’s 
punishment ; and I hate the Avhole red-stock- 
inged race — ” 

“There, there — let us aAvay at once,” Avhis- 
pered the Fra. “Such discourse as this /will 
bring misfortune upon us both.” 

“Have you the superior’s permission fpr my 
going out Avith you?” asked Gerald. 

“Yes; I haA^e his leaA^e till elev'cn o’clock — 
Ave shall be back here before that time,” 

“I’m sorry for it,” said the boy, sternly. 
“ I’d like to think I Avas crossing that old court- 
yard there for the last time.” 

“lou Avill be cold, my poor boy,” said the 
friar, “Avith no other coA’ering but that light 
frock ; but Ave shall find a carriage as Ave go 
along.” 

“No, no. Fra, ” cried the boy, eagerly. “Let 
us AA'alk, Fra; let us AV'alk, and see eA'ery thing. 
It’s like one of the old fairy tales nurse ns-od to 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


19 


tell me long ago— to see the city all alight thus, 
and the troops of peo})le moving on, and all 
these briglit sliops with the rich wares so tempt- 
ingly displayed. Ah! liow happy must they 
be who can wander at will among all these — 
exchanging words and greetings, and making 
brothci’hood with their fellows. See, Era — 
seel” cried he, ‘‘what is it comes yonder, with 
all the torches, and the men in white?” 

“It is some great man’s funeral, my child. 
Let us say a ‘Pax eterna;’” and he fumbled 
for his beads as he said so. 

“Let us follow them,” said the boy, “they 
are bearing the catafalque into that small church 
— how' grand and solemn it all is;” and now 
attaching himself to the long line of acolytes the 
boy walked step for step with the procession, 
mingling his clear and liquid notes in the litan}'- 
they were chanting. While he sung with all 
the force of intense expression, it was strange to 
mark how freely his gaze wandered over all the 
details of the scene — his keen gaze scrutinized 
every thing — the costumes, the looks, the ges- 
tures of all ; and his quick eye ranged from the 
half tawdry splendor below to the dim and sol- 
emn grandeur of the gothic roof overhead. If 
there Avas nothing of levity, as little Avas there 
any thing of reverence in his features. The 
sad scene, Avith all its trappings of Avoe, Avas a 
spectacle, and no more, to him ; and, as he 
turnedjaAvay to leave the spot, his face betraj^ed 
the desire he felt for some neAv object of inter- 
est; Nor had he long to search for such ; for, 
just a^they entered the Piazza di Spagna, they 
found all, dense croAvd gathered around a group 
of those humble musicians from Calabria — the 
Pifferari they call them — stunted in form, and 
miserably clad, these poor creatures, Avhose rude 
figures recall old pictures of the ancient Pan, 
haA^e a Avonderful attraction for the populace. 
They Avere singing some Avild, rude air of their 
nativ'e mountains, accompanying the refrain Avith 
a sort of dance, Avhose uncouth gestures shook 
the croAvd Avith laughter, 

“ Oh ! I love these fellows, but I neA'er haA'e 
a chance of seeing them,” cried the boy; so 
bursting aAvay, he dashed into the thick of the 
assembled throng. It AA^as not Avithout a heart- 
felt sense of shame that the poor friar found 
himself obliged to folloAV his charge, Avhom he 
noAV began to fear might be lost to him. 

“Per Bacco,” cried one of the crowd, “here’s 
a Frate can’t resist the charms of profane melo- 
dy, and is elbowing his Avay, like any sinner, 
among us.” 

“ It’s the cachuca he Avants to see,” exchiim- 
ed another, “ come, Marietta, here’s a connois- 
seur Avorth shoAving your pretty^ ancles to.” 

“By the holy rosary,” cried a third, “she is 
determined on the conquest,” 

This outburst Avas caused by the sudden ap- 
pearance of a young girl, aaIio, scarcely a year 
or tAA^o above childhood, bore in her assured 
look and flashing eyes all the appearances of 
more advanced years. She Avas a deep bru- 
nette in complexion, to which the scarlet cloth 


that hung from her black hair gave additional 
brilliancy. Her jupe, of the same color, re- 
crossed and interlaced Avith taAvdry gold tinsel, 
came only to the knee, beloAV Avhicli a])peared 
limbs that many a Roman statuary had model- 
ed, so perfect Avere they in CA'ery detail of sym- 
metry and beauty. Her Avhole air was redolent 
of that beaut c da diable," as the French hap- 
pily express it, Avhich seems never to appeal in 
A'ain to the sympathies of the populace. ItAvas 
girlhood, almost childlike girlhood ; but dashed 
with a conscious effrontery that had braved hoAV 
many a libertine stare — hoAV many a look signif- 
icant in coarseness? 

With one Avild spring had she bounded into 
the open space, and there she stood noAV on tip- 
toe, her arms extended straight aboA'e her head, 
Avhile Avith clasped hands she remained motion- 
less, that CA'ery line and lineament of her fault- 
less figure might be surveyed in unbroken sym- 
metry. 

“Ah Carina — che bcllezza ! come e grazio- 
sa!” broke from those aaLo, corrupt, debased, 
and degraded, in a hundred Avays, as they AA^cre, 
yet inherited that ancient love of symmetry in 
form Avhich the games and the statues of an- 
tique Rome had fostered. With a graceful 
ease no ballarina of the grand opera could have 
surpassed, she glided into those sIoav and slid- 
ing movements Avhich precede the dance, move- 
ments meant to display the graces of form, 
Avithout the intervention of action. Gradually, 
however, the time of the music grew quicker, 
and noAv her heightened color and more flash- 
ing eye bespoke hoAV her mind lent itself to the 
measure. The dance Avas intended to repre- 
sent the coy retirings of a rustic beauty from 
the adA’ances of an imaginary lover ; and, 
though she Avas alone, so perfectly did She con- 
vey the storied interest of the scene, that the 
enraptured audience could trace eA'ery senti- 
ment of the action. At one moment her ges- 
tures depicted the proudest insolence and dis- 
dain. At the next a half-yielding tenderness 
— now, itAvas passion to the very verge of mad- 
ness — noAA', it AA'as a soul-subduing softness, 
that thrilled through every heart around her. 
Incapable, as it seemed, of longer resisting the 
solicitations of loA'e, her Avearied steps grcAV 
heavier, her languid head drooped, and a look 
of A'oluptuous AvayAvardness appeared to steal 
over her. Wherever her eye turned a murmur- 
ed sigh acknoAvledged hoAV thoroughly the'eop- 
tiA'ation held enthralled every bosom around, 
Avhen suddenly, Avith a gesture that seemed like 
a cry — so full of piercing agony it seemed — she 
dashed her hands across her forehead and stared 
Avith aching eye-balls into vacancy — it AA'as 
jealousy — the terrible pang had shot through 
her heart and she Avas Avild. The horrible 
transitions from doubt to doubt, until full con- 
viction forced itself upon her, Avere given Avitli 
terrific poAA'cr. Over her features, in turn, })ass- 
ed every expression of passion. The heart- 
rending tenderness of love — the clinging to a 
lost afiiection — the straining effort to recall him 


20 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


v, ho had deserted lier — the black bitterness of 
('cspair — and then, with a wild spring, like the 
1 ound of a tiger, she counterfeited a s])ring 
t ver a precipice to death ! 

She fell upon the ground, and as the mingled 
sobs and cries rose through the troubled crowd, 
a boy tore his way through the dense mass, and 
lighting with all the energy of infuriated 
strength, gained the open space where she lay. 
Dropping on his knees he bent over, and clasp- 
ing her hand kissed it wildly over and over, 
crying out in a voice of broken agony, “Oh! 
blarietta. Marietta mia, come back to us — come 
back, we will love you and cherish you.” 

A perfect roar of laughter — the revulsion to 
that intensity of feeling so lately diffused 
among them — now shook the mob. Reveng- 
ing, as it were, the illusion that had so enthrall- 
ed themselves, they now turned all their ridi- 
cule upon the poor boy. 

“ Santissima Virginal if he isn't a scholar 
of the Holy Order, ” shouted one. 

Ecco ! a real Jesuit,” said another, “had 
lie been a little older though, he’d have done 
it more secretly.” 

“The little priest is offering the consolation 
of his order,” cried a third ; and there rained 
upon him, from every side, words of mockery 
and sarcasm. 

“ Don’t you see that he is a mere boy — have 
you no shame that you can mock a simple- 
liearted child like this ?” said the burly Fra, as 
he pushed the crowd right and left, and forced 
a passage through the mob. “Come along, 
Gerald, come along. They are a cowardly 
pack, and if they were not fifty to one, they’d 
think twice ere they’d insult us.” This speech 
he delivered in Italian, with a daring emphasis 
of look and gesture that made the craven listen- 
ers tremble. They opened a little path for the 
friar and his charge to retire ; nor was it until 
they had nearly gained the corner of the Piazza 
that they dared to yell forth a cry of insult and 
derision. 

The boy grasped the Fra’s hand as he heard 
it, and looked up in his face with an expression 
there was no mistaking, so full was it of wild 
and daring courage. 

“No, no, Gerald,” said tie, “there are too 
many of them, and what should we get by it 
after all? See, too, how they have torn your 
‘soutane’ all to pieces. I almost suspect we 
ought to go back again to the college, my boy. 
I scarcely like to present you in such a state 
as this.” 

Well, indeed, might the Fra have come to 
this doubtful issue, for the youth’s gown hung 
in ribbons around him, and his cap was flatten- 
ed to his head. 

“I wish I knew what was best to be done, 
Gerald,” said he, wiping the sweat from his 
brawny face. “ What do you advise your- 
self?” 

“I’d say, go on,” cried the youth. “Will a 
great signore think whether my poor and thread- 
bare fixx;k be torn or whole? he’ll not know 


if I be in rags or in purple. Tell him, if you 
like, that we met with rough usage in the 
streets. Tell liim, that in passing through the 
crowd they left me thus. Say nothing about 
Marietta, Fra ; you need not speak of her.” 

The hoy’s voice, as he uttered the last words, 
became little louder than a mere whisper. 

“Come along then; and, with the help of 
the saints, Ave’ll go through with what we’ve 
begun.” 

And with this vigorous resolve the stout friar 
strode along down the Corso. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“the interview.” 

It was full an hour behind the time appoint- 
ed when the friar, accompanied by young Ger- 
ald, entered the arched gate of the Altieri Pal- 
ace. 

“You have been asked for twice, Frate,” 
said the porter; “and I doubt if you will be 
admitted now. It is the time his Royal High- 
ness takes his siesta.” 

“I must only hope for the best,” sighed out 
the Fra, as he ascended the Avide stairs of Avhite 
marble, with a sinking heart. 

“Let us go a little slower. Fra Luke,” Avhis- 
pered the boy, “ I’d like to liave a look at these 
statues. See Avhat a fine fellow that is strang- 
ling the serpent ; and, oh ! is she not beautiful, 
crouching in that large shell?” 

“Heathen A'anities, all of them,” muttered 
the Fra; “Avhat are they compared to the pure 
and blessed face of our Lady ?” 

The youth felt rebuked, andAA-as silent. While 
the friar, however, Avas communicating Avith the 
servant in Avaiting, the boy had time to stroll doAvn 
the long gallery, admiring as he Avent the vari- 
ous AA'ork of high art it contained. Stands of 
Aveapons, too, and spoils of the chase abounded, 
and these he examined Avith aAvistful curiositv, 
reading from short inscriptions attached to the 
cases, and Avhich told him how this Avolf had been 
killed by his Royal Highness on such a day of 
such a year, and hoAv that boar had receiA-ed his 
death wound from the Prince’s hand at such an- 
other time. 

It almost required force from the friar to tear 
him aAvay from objects so full of interest, nor did 
he succeed Avithout a promise that he should see 
them all some other day. Passing through a 
long suite of rooms, magnificently furnished, but 
Avhose splendor Avas dimmed and faded by years, 
they reached an octagon chamber of small but 
beautiful proportions ; and hero the friar Avas 
told the youth Avas to wait, Avhile he himself Avas 
admitted to the Prince. 

Charles EdAvard had just dined, and, as w'as 
his Avont, dined freely, Avhen the Fra Avas an- 
nounced. “You can retire,” said the Prince 
to the servants in Avaiting, but never turning his 
head toAvard Avhere the Fra Avas standing. The 
serA’^ants retreated noiselessly, and all Avas now 


77 ^ 



' :) 

“THE CHEVALIER.” 



21 


still in the chamber. The Prince had di’awn 
his chair toward the fire, and sat gazing at the 
burning logs in deej) reverie. Apparently he 
followed his thoughts so far as to forget that the 
])00r friar was yet in waiting; for it was only as a 
low, faint sigh escaped him, that the Prince sud- 
denly turning his head, cried out, “Ah! our 
Prate, I had half forgotten you. You are some- 
what late, are you not?” 

In a voice tremulous Avith fear and deference 
Fra Luke narrated how they had been delayed 
by a misadventure in the Piazza, contriving to 
interweave in his story an apology for the torn 
dress and ragged habiliments the boy was to ap- 
pear in. “He is not in a state to be seen by 
your Royal Highness at all. If it Avas’nt that 
your Royal Highness will think little of the shell 
where the kernel is sound ” 

“And who is to warrant me that, sir?” said 
the Prince, angrily. “ So its your guarantee 
I’m to take for it.” 

The poor friar almost felt as if he were about 
to faint at the stern demand, nor did he dare to 
utter a word of reply. So far, this was in his 
favor, since, when unprovoked by any thing like 
vejoindei*, Charles Edward was usually disposed 
to turn from any unpleasant theme, and address 
his thoughts elsewhere. 

“ Pm half relenting, my good Friar,” said he, 
in a calmer tone, “tliat I should have brought 
you here on this errand. How am I to burden 
myself with the care of this boy? I am but a 
pensioner myself, weighed down already with a 
mass of followers. So long as hope remained 
to us we struggled on manfully enough. Pres- 
ent privation was to have had its recompense, at 
least we thought so.” He stopped suddenly, 
and then as if ashamed of speaking thus confi- 
dentially to one he had never seen before, his 
voice assumed a harsher, sterner accent as he 
said, “These are not your concerns. What is 
it you propose I should do ? Have you a plan ? 
What is it?” 

Had Fra Luke been required to project an- 
other scheme of invasion, he could not have 
been more dumbfounded and confused, and he 
stood the very picture of hopeless incapacity. 

Charles Edward’s temper was in that state 
that he invariably sought to turn upon others 
the reproaches his own conscience addressed to 
him, and he angrily said, “It is by this same 
train of beggarly followers that my fortunes are 
rendered irretrievable. I am worried and har- 
assed by their importunities; they attach the 
plague spot of their poverty to me wherever I 
go. I should have freed myself from this thral- 
dom many a year ago; and if I had, Avhere and 
what might I not have been to-day? You, and 
others of your stamp, look upon mo as an al- 
moner, not more nor less.” His passion had 
now spent itself, and he sat moodily gazing at 
the fire. 

“Is the lad here?” asked he, aftera long pause. 

“ Yes, your Royal Highness,” said he, while 
he made a motion toward the door. 

Charles Edward sto|)pcd him quickly as he 


said, “No matter, there is not any need that I 
should see him. He and his aunt — she is his 
aunt, you said — must return to Ireland, this is 
no ])lace for them. I will see Kelly about it to- 
morrow ; and they shall have something to pay 
their journey. This arrangement does not please 
you, Frate, eh ? Speak out, man. You think it 
cold, unnatural, and unkind. Is it not so?” 

“ If your gracious Highness would just con- 
descend to say a word to him ; one word, that 
he might carry away in his heart for the rest of 
his days.” 

“Better have no memory of me,” sighed tlie 
Prince drearily. 

“Oh don’t say so, your Royal Highness; 
think what pride it will be to him yet, God 
knows in what far away country, to remember 
that he saw you once, that he stood in your 
presence, and heard you speak to him.” 

“It shall be as you wish, Frate ; but I charge 
you once more to be sure that he may not know 
with whom he is speaking.” 

“By this holy Book,” said the Fra, with a 
gesture implying a vow to observe secrecy. 

“ Go now, send him hither, and wait without 
till I send for you.” 

The door had scarcely closed behind the friar 
Avhen it opened again to admit the entrance of 
the youth. The Prince turned his head, and 
whether it was the extreme poverty of his ap- 
pearance, more striking from the ragged and 
torn condition of his dress, or that something in 
the boy’s air and look impressed him painfully, 
but he passed his hand across his eyes, and 
averted his glance from him. 

“Come forward, my boy,” said he at last. 
“How are you called ?” 

“ Gerald Fitzgerald, Signor Conte,” said he, 
firmly but respectfully. 

“You are Irish by birth,” said the Prince, in 
a voice slightly tremulous. 

“Yes; Signor Conte,” replied he, while he 
drew himself up with an air that almost savored 
of haughtiness. 

“And your friends have destined you for the 
priesthood, it seems.” 

“I never knew I had friends,” said the boy; 
“ I thought myself a sort of castaAvay.” 

“Why, you have just told me of your Irish 
blood — how knew you of that ?” 

“ So long as I can remember I have heard 
that I Avas a Geraldine, and they call me Irish 
in the college.” 

There was a frank boldness in his manner, to- 
tally removed from the slightest trace of rude- 
ness or presumption, that already interested the 
Prince, Avho now gazed long and steadily on him. 

“Do I remind you of any one you ever saw 
or cared for. Signor Conte ?” said the boy, with 
an accent of touching gentleness. 

“That you do, child,” said he, laying his 
hand on the youth’s shoulder, Avhile he passed 
the other across his eyes. 

“I hope it Avas of none who ever gave you 
sorroAAq” said the boy, Avho saAv the quivering 
motion of the lip that indicates deep grief. 


22 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


/ 

' ■ Charles Edward now remoA'cd his liand, and 

turned away his head for some seconds. 

At last, he arose suddenly from his chair, and 
with an elfort that seemed to show ha Avas strug- 
gling for the mastery oA^er his OAvn emotions, 
said, “ Is it A'our oaa'ii choica to he a priest, Ger- 
ald?” 

“No; far from it. I’d rather he a herd on 
the Campagna ! You surely knoAA" little of the 
life of the conA'ent, Signor Conte, or you had 
not asked me that question.” 

Far from taking otfensc at the boy’s l)oldne.ss, 
the Prince smiled good-naturedly at the energy 
of his reply. 

“ Is it the stillness, the seclusion that you dis- 
like ?” asked he, CAudently AA^anting the youth to 
.speak of himself and of his temperament. 

“ No, it is not that,” said the boy, thought- 
fully. “The quiet, peaceful hours, AA'hen aa'c 
are left to AAdiat they call meditation, are the 
best of it. Then one is free to range Avhere he 
Avill, in fancy. I’ve had as many adA'entures, 
thus, as any fortune-seeker of the Arabian Nights. 
What lands have I not visited — Avhat bold things 
have I not achieA'ed — ay, and day after day, 
taken up the same dream, Avhere I had left it 
last, carrying on its fortunes, till the actual AA'oi'k 
of life seemed the illusion, and this — the dream- 
Avorld — the true one.” 

“ So that, after all, this same existence has 
its pleasures, Gerald ?” 

“The pleasures arc in forgetting it ! ignoring 
that your whole life is a falsehood ! They make 
me kneel at confession, to tell my thoughts — 
Avhile Avell I knoAv that, for the least blamable 
of them, I shall be scourged. They oblige me 
to say that I hate every thing that gives a charm 
to life, and cherish as blessings all that can 
darken and sadden it. Well, I SAA^ear the lie, 
and they are satisfied ! And Avhy are they sat- 
isfied? because out of this corrupt heart, de- 
based by years of treachery and falsehood, they 
have created the being that they Avant to serA'e 
them.” 

“What has led you to think thus hardly of 
the priesthood ?” 

“ One of themselves. Signor Conte. He told 
me all that I haA’e repeated to you noAV, and he 
counseled me, if I had a friend — one friend on 
earth — to beseech him to rescue me from this 
pollution, ere it Avas too late, ere I Avas like 
him.” 

“And he — Avhat became of him?” 

“He died, as all die Avho oflfend the Order, 
of a AA^asting fever. His hair Avas Avhite as snow, 
though he Avas under thirty, and his coffin Avas 
light as a child’s. Look here. Signor Conte,” 
cried he, as a smile of half incredulity, half pity, 
curled the Prince’s lip, “look here. You are 
a great man and a rich ; you never kncAv Avhat 
it Avas in life to suffer any, the commonest of 
those priA’ations poor men pass their days in — ” 

“ Who can dare to say that of me ?” cried 
Charles EdAvard, passionately. “There’s not 
a toil I haA'e not tasted, there’s not a peril I 
have not braved, there’s not a soitoav, nor a 


sufibring haA’e not been my portion ; ay, and, 
God Avot, A\ith a heavier stake upon the board 
than ever man played fur!” 

“Forgive me, Signor Conte,” stammered out 
the boy, as his eyes lilled up at the sight of the 
emotion he had .caused, “I kncAV not Avhat I 
Avas saying.” 

The. Prince took little heed of the wwds, for 
his aroused thoughts bore him sadly to the mist- 
clad mountain and the heathery gorges of far 
aAA’ay ; and he strode the room in deep emotion. 
At last his glance fell upon the boy, as pale and 
terror-stricken he stood Avatching him, and he 
quickly said, “I’m not angry Avith you, Gerald; 
do not grieve, my poor boy. You AAdll, learn, 
one of these days, that soitoav has its place at 
fine tables, just as at humbler boards. It helps 
the rich man to don his robe of purple, just as 
it aids the beggar to put on his rags. It’s a 
stern conscription that calls on all to serve. 
But to yourself; you Avill not be a priest you 
say. What then Avould you like — Avhat say you 
to the- life of a soldier ?” 

“But in Avhat sei’A’ice, Signor Conte?” 

“That of youi^oAvn country, I suppose.” 

“They tell me that the King is a ttsurper, 
AAffio has no right to be King ; and shall I SAvear 
faith and loyalty to him ?” 

“ Others haA'e done so, and are doing it CA'ery 
day, boy. It Avas but yesterday Lord Blantyre 
made Avhat they call his submission ; and he Avas 
the bosom friend of — the Pretender ;” and the 
last Avords AA’ere uttered in a half-scornful laugh. 

“I Avill not hear him called by that name, 
Signor Conte. So long as I remember any thing, 
I Avas taught not to endure it.” 

“Was that your mother’s teaching, Gerald ?” 
said the Prince, tenderly. 

“It Avas, sir. I Avas a very little child ; but 
I can ncA-er forget the last prayer I made each 
night before bed : it Avas for God’s protection to 
the true Prince ; and Avhen I arose I Avas to sa}', 

‘ Confu.Ton to all Avho call him the Pretender.’ ” 

“ He is not even that noAA’,” muttered Charles 
EdAvard, as he leaned his head on the mantel- 
piece. 

“I hope. Signor Conte,” said the boy timid- 
ly, “ that you never Avere for the Elgctoh.s” 

“I haA'e done little for the cause of the Stu- 
arts,” said Charles, Avith a deep sigh. 

“I Avish I may live to serve them,” cried the 
youth, Avith energy. 

The Prince looked long and steadfastly at the 
boy, and, in a tone that bespoke deep thought, 
said — 

“I Avant to befriend you, Gerald, if I but 
knew hoAv. It is clear you haA’-e no A’oeation 
for the church, and Ave are here in a land Avhere 
there is little other career. Were aa'c in France, 
something might be done. I haA'C some friends, 
hoAveA'er, in that country, and I Avill see about 
communicating Avith them. Send the Frate 
hither.” 

The boy left the room, and speedily returned 
Avith Fra Luke, AA'hose anxious glances Avere 
turned from the Priime to the youth, in eager 


“THE CHEVALIER/’ 


23 


curiosity to learn how their interview had gone 
off. 

“ Gerald has no ambition to be a monsignore, 
Frate,” said the Prince, laughingly, “and we 
mustn’t constrain him. They who servo the 
church should have their hearts in the calling. 
Do you know of any honest family with whom 
he might be domesticated for a short time — not 
in Rome, of course, but in the country ; it will 
only be for a month or two at farthest?” 

“There is a worthy family at Orvieto, if it 
were not too far — ” 

“ Nothing of the kind; Orvieto will suit ad- 
ir.irably. Who are these people?” 

“ The father is the steward of Cardinal Ca- 
raffa ; but it is a villa that his eminence never 
visits, and so they live there as in their own 
palace ; and the mountain air is so wholesome 
there, sick people used to seek the place ; and 
so Tonino, as they call him, takes a boarder, or 
even two — ” 

“That is eA^ery thing Ave Avant,” said the 
Prince, cutting short Avhat he feared might be 
a long history. “ Let the boy go back now to 
the college, and do you yourself come here on 
Saturday morning, and Kelly Avill arrange all 
Avith you.” 

“ I wish I kneAV Avhy you are so good to me. 
Signor Conte,” said the boy, as his eyes filled 
up Avith tears. 

“I was a friend of 3mur family, Gerald,” said 
Cliarles, as he fixed his eyes on the friar, to en- 
force his former caution. 

“ And am I ne\"er to sec you again, signor?” 
cried he, eagerly. 

“Yes, to be sure; you shall come here; but 
I will settle all that another time — on Saturday, 
Fra ; and uoav good-by.” 

The boy grasped the hand Avith Avhich the 
Prince Avaved his farewell, and kissed it raptur- 
ously ; and Charles, OA’ercome at length bj' feel- 
ings he had repressed till then, threw' his arms 
around the boy’s neck, and pressed him to his 
bosom. 

Fra Luke, terrified hoAV such a moment might 
end, hurried the youth from the room, and re- 
tired. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE VILLA AT ORA'IETO. 

If the villa life of Italy might prove a severe 
trial of temper and spirits to most persons, to 
3'oung Gerald, trained in all the asceticism of a 
convent, it was a perfect paradise. The Avild 
and far-spreading landscape imparted a glorious 
sense of liberty, Avhich grcAv Avith each day’s en- 
joyment of it. It Avas a land of mountain and 
forest — those deep, dark Avoods of chestnut- 
trees traA'crsed Avith the clear and rapid rivulets 
so common in the Roman states ; Avith here and 
there, at rare intervals, the solitary hut of a 
charcoal-burner; in these vast solitudes, silent 
as the great saA'annas of the South, he passed 


his days. Noav roaming in search of game, 
noAV dreamily lying, book in hand, beside a 
rDer’s bank, or strolling listlessly along, tasting, 
in the very Avaywardness of an untrammeled 
Avill, an ecstasy only knoAvn to those Avho have 
felt captivity. 

Though there were several young people in 
the family of the Intendente, Gerald had no 
companionship w ith any of them ; the boys Avere 
boorish, uneducated, and coarse-minded ; and 
the girls, Avith one exception, Avere little better. 
Ninetta, it is true, Avas gentler; her voice aauis 
soft, and her silky hair and soft, dark eyes had 
a strange, subduing influence about them; but 
even she Avas far from that ideal his imagina- 
tion had pictured, nor could he, by all his per- 
suasions, induce her to share his raptures for 
Ariosto, or the still more passionate delight 
that Petrarch gaA'c him. He AV'as just opening 
that period of youtli w'hen the heart yearns for 
some object of affection — some centre around 
Avhich its own hopes and fears, its Avishes and 
aspirations, may revolve. It is Avonderful hoAV 
much imagination contributes in such cases, sup- 
plying gi'aces and attractions Avhere nature has 
been a niggard, and giving to the veriest com- 
monplace character traits of distinctive charm. 

Ninetta Avas quite pretty enough for all this, 
but she Avas no more. Without a particle of 
education, she had neA’er raised her mind be- 
yond the commonest daily cares ; and Avhat 
Avith the vines, the oliA'es, the chestnuts, the 
festivals of the church, and little family gather- 
ings, her life had its sphere of duties so full as 
to leaA'e no timer for the love-sick Avanderings 
of an idle boy. 

If she Avas disposed to admire him when, in 
fits of Avild energy, he Avould pass nights and 
days in chase of the Avild boar, or follow the 
track of a Avolf, Avith the steadfast tenacity of a 
hound, she cared little for his intervals of 
dreamy fancy, nor lent any sympathy to joys 
or sorroAvs Avhich had no basis in reality ; and 
when her indifference had gone so far as to of- 
lend him, she AA'ould gently smile, and say, 
“Never mind, Gerald; the Contessina Avill 
come one of these days, and she’ll be charmed 
Avith all these ‘ moonings.’ ” Whether piqued 
by the tone of this commiseration, or careless 
as to its meaning, he never thought of asking 
who the Contessina might be; until one morn- 
ing a shoAvily-dressed courier arrived at the 
villa to announce that, ere the end of the AA’eek, 
the Cardinal’s niece and her governante Avere 
to arrive, and remain for, probably, several 
Aveeks there. 

It Avas two years since her last A'isit, and great 
Avas the commotion to prepare a suitable recep- 
tion for her. Saloons that had been carefully 
closed till noAv, Avere immediately opened, and 
all the costly funiiture uncovered. Within 
doors and Avithout the Avork of preparation Avent 
briskly on. Troops of laborers Avere employed 
in the grounds and the gardens. Fresh par- 
terres of flowers Avere planted beneath the Avin- 
doAvs ; fountains long dried up Averc taught to 


24 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


pla)’’, and jets of many a fantastic kind threw 
tlieir sportive showers on the grass. 

Gerald took immense interest in all these 
details, to which his natural taste imparted 
many a happy suggestion. By his advice the 
statues were arranged in suitable spots, and a 
hundred little devices of ingenuity came from 
his quick intelligence. “The Contessina will 
be delighted with this ! How she will love 
that!” were exclamations that rewarded him 
for every fresh exertion ; and, doubtless, he had 
fashioned to his own heart a Contessina, for he 
never asked a question, nor made one single in- 
quiry about her, the real one. As little was 
he prepared for the great cortege which preceded 
her coming — troops of servants, saddle-horses, 
fourgons of luggage, even furniture kept pour- 
ing in, till the villa, so tranquil and almost de- 
serted in its appearance, became like some vast 
and popular hotel. There was something al- 
most regal in the state and pi^eparation that 
went forward ; and when, at the close of a long 
summer day, two mounted couriers dashed up 
to the door, all heated and dust-covered, quick- 
ly followed by two heavy coaches, with scarlet 
jjanels, Gerald's curiosity at length got the up- 
]ier hand, and he stole to a window to watch 
the descent of her for whom all these cares had 
been provided. What was his astonishment to 
see a little girl, apparently younger than him- 
self, spring lightly to the ground, and, after a 
brief gesture of acknowledgment to the welcome 
tendered her, pass into the house. He had 
seen enough, however, to remark that her long 
and beautiful hair was almost golden in tint, 
and that her eyes, whatever their color, -were 
large and lustrous. He had dwelt with more 
pleasure on these traits, had he not marked, in 
the haughty gesture she vouchsafed, and the 
proud carriage of her head, what he, not un- 
fairly, ascribed to a character imperious and 
exacting — almost insolent, indeed, in its re- 
quirement of respect. 

Guglia Ridolfi was, however, the greatest 
heiress in the Roman States ; she was the niece 
of a cardinal, the granddaughter of a grandee 
of Spain, and, more than all, had been taught 
to reflect on these facts from the earliest years 
of her infancy. It had been for years the poli- 
cy of the Cardinal to increase the prestige of 
her position by every means in his poAver; and 
they who knew the ambitious nature of the 
man, could easily see how, in the great game 
he played, his own future aggrandizement was 
as much included as Avas her elevation. Left 
Avithout a father or mother Avhen a mere infant, 
she had been confided to the care of her uncle. 
Surrounded Avith teachers of every kind, she 
only learned what and Avhen she pleased ; her 
education being, in fact, the result of certain 
impulses, Avhich SAvayed her from time to time. 
As she Avas gifted Avith great quickness, Iioaa'- 
CA'er, and a remarkable memory, she seemed to 
make the most astonishing progress, and her ^ 
fame as a linguist, and her reputation for ac- 
complishments, Avere the talk of Rome. i 


She had all the AvayAvardness, caprice, and 
instability such a discipline might be supposed 
to produce, and so completely sated Avith amuse- 
ment and pleasure Avas she, that noAV, as a mere 
child, or little more, she actually pined aAvay, 
from sheer ennui of life. A momentary change 
of place afforded her a slight, passing satisfac- 
tion, and so she had come doAvn to Orvieto to 
stay some time, and persuade herself, if she 
could, that she enjoyed it. Strange enough, 
nothing in either her general appearance or her 
gestures betrayed this Aveariness of the AA'orld ; 
her eyes Avere bright, her look animated, her 
step active. It was only when Avatching her 
closely might be seen hoAV estranged her 
thoughts Avere from AA'hat seemed to occupy 
them ; and Iioav, at times, a Ioaa', faint sigh 
would escape her, CA’en Avhen she Avas appar- 
ently occupied and interested. 

It Avas rumored tliat these very traits of her 
disposition Avere Avhat had attached her uncle so 
fondly to her, and that he recognized in them 
the indications of a blood and a race Avhich had 
ahvays made their AA'ay in life, subjecting others 
to tlicir rule, and using them as mere tools for 
their oAvn advancement. One thing Avas cer- 
tain : he curbed her in nothing ; eA’ery Avild 
Aveed of her heart grcAv u]) in all its CAvn lux- 
uriance, and she Avas the ideal of imperiousness 
and self-Avill. 

Either from caprice or settled purpose — it 
Avere hard to say Avhich — the Cardinal affected 
to submit his own j)lans to her, and consult her 
about many things Avhich Avere clearly beyond 
the sphere of either her years or her knoAvledge, 
but to Avhich her replies gave him the sort of 
guidance that gamblers are Avont to accept for 
the accidents of play ; and often and often had 
“Da Guglia’s” counsels decided him Avhen 
his mind Avas Avavering betAveen tAvo resoh'es. 
Whether from perceiving the ascendency she 
thus obtained over her uncle’s mind, or that 
really, to her pleasure-sick heart, these sterner 
themes gaA'e her a gleam of interest, but grad- 
ually did she turn her thougl^ts to the great 
events of the day, and only listdned Avith eager- 
ness to subjects of state craft and intrigue. 

Such Avas she to Avhose morning levee Gerald 
was summoned on the day after her arrival, 
Avhen in a sort of vassalage the Intendente, fol- 
loAved by his family and the villagers, Avere ad- 
mitted to pay this homage. It Avas not Avith- 
out a certain compulsion Gerald yielded to this 
customary act of deference ; nor Avas his com- 
pliance more gracefully accorded AAhen he learn- 
ed that he Avas to be supposed to be a member 
of the steAvard’s family, since if knoAvn to be a 
stranger, it Avas almost certain the Contessina 
Avould not sufier him to remain there. 

It soh’cd much of his difficulty to be told, 
that in all likelihood she Avould ncAcr notice 
nor remark him. She rarely did more tiian 
listen to the fcAv Avords of routine gratulation 
the Intendente spoke, and AA'ith a slight nod 
of her head intimate that they miglit retire. 
“Then, why am I needed at all? Why can’t 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


this ceremony go on without me?” cried he half 
peevishly. 

“Because, if she were aftei’ward to see you 
about the grounds, she is quite capable of re- 
membering that you had not presented yourself 
on her arrival. She forgets nothing.” 

“That’s true,” broke in the Intemlente. “ It 
was but the last time she came here .she remark- 
ed that the lace border of my hat was torn, and 
said to me, ‘Signor Maurizio, you must have 
lazy daughters, for I saw that piece of gold braid 
tom, as it is now, on the last two visits I made 
here.’ ” 

Gerald turned away in ill-humor, for he was 
vexed at what he could not but feel an act of 
servitude required of him. There is a strange 
mystery in that atmosphere of deference which 
arises from the united submission of many to 
one whom they w'ould honor and reverence. 
The most stubborn assertcr of equality has not 
failed to own this, as he has stood among the 
crowd before a throne. The sentiment of hom- 
age is quickly contagious, and few there are 
who can bar their hearts against the feelings of 
that homage which fills every breast about him. 
Gerald experienced this as he found himself 
moving slowly along in the ju'ocession toward 
the chamber where the Contessina held her 
court. The splendid suite of rooms, filled with 
objects of art, the massive candelabra of gilded 
bronze, the costly tables df malachite and agate, 
all obtained their full share of admiration from 
the simple villagers, whose whispered words al- 
most savored of worship, till awe-stricken, they 
found themselves in a magnificent chamber, 
hung wdth pictures from floor to ceiling. In a 
deep window recess, from which a vast view 
opened over mountain and forest, the Contes- 
sina W'as standing, book in hand, but gazing 
listlessly on the landscape, and never noticing 
in the slightest that dense throng which now 
gathered in the lower part of the room. 

“Maurizio and the peasants have come to 
pay their duty,” whispered a thin, elderly lady, 
who acted as governante to the young Countess. 

“Well, be it so,” said she, languidly. And 
now a very meanly clad priest, poor and wretch- 
ed in appearance, came crouchingly forward to 
kiss her hand. She gave it with averted head, 
and in a way that indicated little of courtesy, 
while he bent tremblingly over it, as beseemed 
one whose lips touched the fingers of a great 
cardinal’s niece. Maurizio followed, and then 
the other members of his household. When it 
came to Gerald’s turn to advance, “ You must, 
you must ; it is your duty,” whispered the stew- 
ard, as, rebel-like, the youth wdshed to pass on 
without the act of deference. 

“Is this Tonino?” asked the Contessina, 
suddenly turning her head, for her quick ears 
had caught the w’ords of remonstrance. “Is 
this Tonino?” 

“No, Eccelenza, Tonino was drawn in the 
conscription,” muttered the steward, in confu- 
sion. “ He kncAv your Excellency would have 
got him oft", if you were here, but — ” 


2 .» 

“ Which is this, then — your second son, or 
your third?” 

“Neither, Eccelenza, neither; he is a sort 
of connection — ” 

“Nothing of the kind,” broke in Gerald. 
“I’m of the blood of the Geraldines.” 

“Native princes,” said the Contessina, quick- 
ly. “Irish, too! How came you here ?” 

“ He has been living with us, Eccelenza, for 
some months back,” chimed in the steward, an 
honest Frate, one — ” 

“Let himself answer me,” said the Con- 
tessina. 

“They took me from the Jesuit College, and 
placed me here,” said the boy. 

“Who do you mean by they?” asked she. 

“ The Frate, and the Count ; perhaps, indeed, 
I owe the change more to him.” 

“ What is his name?” 

“I never heard it. I only saw him once, 
and then for a short time.” 

“ How old are you ?” asked the Contes.sina. 

“ I think, fifteen.” 

“Indeed. I should have thought you youn- 
ger than I am,” said she, half musingly. 

“Oh, no; I look much, much older,” said 
Gerald, as he gazed at her bright and beautiful 
features. 

“Don Cesare,” said she, turning to a pale 
old man beside her, “you must write to the 
rector of the college, and let us learn about this 
boy — how' he came there, and why he left. And 
so,” said she, addressing Gerald, “you think it 
beneath your quality to kiss a lady’s hand.” 

“No, no,” cried he, rapturously, as he knelt 
down and pressed her hand to his lips. 

“It is not so you should do it, boy,” broke in 
the governante. “Yours has been ill training, 
wherever you have got it.” 

“Alas! I have had none,” said Gerald, as 
his eyes ran over. 

“Pass on, boy; move on,” said the gover- 
nante, and Gerald’s head drooped as his heavy 
footsteps stole along. He never dared to look 
up as he went. Had he done so, what a thrill 
might his heart have felt to know that the Cop- 
tessina’s eyes had followed him to the very 
door. 

“There, you have done for me and yourself 
too, with your stupid pride about your blood,” 
cried the Intendente, when they gained the 
court-yard. “The next thing will he an order 
to send me to Rome, to exj)lain why I have 
taken you to live here.” 

“Well, I suppose you can give your reasons 
for it,” said Gerald, gravely. 

“ Except that it was my evil fortune, I know 
of none other,” broke out the other, angrily, and 
turned away. From each, in turn, of the family 
did he meet with some words of sarcasm and 
reproof ; and though Ninetta .said nothing, her 
tearful eyes and sorrow-stricken features were 
the hardest of all the reproaches he endured. 

“ What am I, that I should bring shame and 
sorrow to those who befriend me !” cried he, as 
with an alnicst bursting heart he threw him- 


20 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


self ii])on his bed, and sobbed there till he fell 
asleep. When the first gleam of sunlight broke 
upon him he awoke, and as suddenly remem- 
bered all his griefs of the day before, and he 
sat down ujion his bed to think over what he 
should do. 

“ If I could but find out the Conte, at Rome, 
or even the Era Luke,” thought he; but alas, 
he had no clue to either. “I know it ; I have 
it,” exclaimed he at last. “There is a life 
which I can live without fearing reproach from 
those about me. I’ll go and be a charcoal 
burner in the Maremma. The Carbonari will 
not refuse to have me, and I’ll set out for the 
forest at once.” 

When Gerald had uttered this resolve, it was 
in the bitterness of despair that he spoke, since 
of all the varied modes by which men earned a 
livelihood, none was in such universal disrepute 
as that of a charcoal burner ; and when the 
humblest creature of the streets said “I’d as 
soon be a charcoal burner,” he expressed the 
direst aspect of his misery. 

It was not, indeed, that either the life or the 
labor had any thing degrading in themselves, 
but, generally, they who followed it were tut- 
casts and vagabonds — the irreclaimable sweep- 
ings of towns, or the incorrigible youth of coun- 
try districts, who sought in the wild and wan- 
dering existence a freedom from all ties of civ- 
ilization — the life of the forest, in all its sav- 
agery, but in all its independence. The chief 
resort of these men was a certain district in 
tliosc low-lying lands along the coast, called 
Maremmas, and where, from the undrained 
character of the soil, and rapid decomposition 
of vegetable matter ever going on, disease of 
the most deadly form existed — ague and fever 
being tiie daily condition of all who dwelt there. 
Kothing but habits of wildest excess, and an 
utter indifference to life, could make men brave 
such an existence ; but their recompense was, 
that this district tvas a species of sanctuary, 
where the law never entered. Beyond certain 
well-knov/n limits the hardiest carbineer never 
crossed ; and it was w'ell known that he who 
passed that frontier came as fugitive, and not 
as foe. Many, it is true, of those who sojourn- 
ed here were attainted Avith the deepest crimes 
— men for whom no hope of return to the w'orld 
remained — outcasts, branded Avith undying in- 
famy; but others there Avere, mere victims of 
dissipation and folly — rash youths, who had so 
irretrievably compromised their fair fame that 
they had nothing left but to seek oblivion. 

The terrible stories Gerald had heard of these 
outcasts from his school-felloAvs, the horror in 
Avhich they Avere held by all honest villagers, in- 
spired him Avith a strange interest to see them 
Avith his OAvn eyes. It savored, too, of courage 
— it smacked, to his heart, like bravery, to 
throw himself among such reckless and dare- 
devil associates, and he felt a sort of hero to 
himself AAdien he had determined on it. “Ay,” 
said he, “they haA^e been taunting me here for 
some time back, that my friends take little 


trouble about mo — that they half forget me, 
and so on. Let us see if I can not push a 
path for' myself, and spare them all future 
trouble.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE TANA IN TIIE MAREMMA. 

Simply turning his steps AvestAAmrd, in the 
direction Avhere he knew the Maremma lay, 
Gerald set out on his lonely journey. It was 
nothing neAV in his habits to be absent the en- 
tire day, and eA’en night, so that no attention 
Avas draAvn to his departure till late on the fol- 
loAving day ; nor, perhaps, had it occurred even 
then, if a summons had not come from the Con- 
tessina, that she desired to speak Avith him. A 
search Avas at once made, inquiries instituted on 
CA’ery side, and soon the startling fact acknoAvl- 
edged, that he had gone aAvay — none kneAV 
A\ hither or Avhy. 

The ContessinaLat once oidered a pursuit; 
lie Avas to be overtaken and brought back ; and 
noAv mounted couriers set off on erery side, 
scouring the high roads, interrogating hotel- 
keepers, giA'ing descriptions of the fugitLe at 
passport stations — taking, in short, alb the pal- 
pable and evident means of discovery; Avhile he 
— for Avhose benefit this solicitude Avas intended 
■ — Avas already deep among the dreary valleys to 
the Avest of the Lake of Bolseno. The country 
through Avliich he journej’ed Avas, indeed, sad- 
colored as his OAvn thoughts. Hills, not large 
enough to be called mountains, succeeded each 
other in unbroken succession, their sides cover- 
ed Avith a poor and burned-up herbage, inter- 
spersed Avith masses of rock or long patches of 
shingle ; no Avood, no cultivation on any side ; 
a few staiwed and Avretched sheep, Avatched by 
one eA-en more Avretched still, Avas all that rep- 
resented life — while in the A'alleys, a stray hut 
or tAvo, generally on the borders of a SAvampy 
lake, offered the only thing in the shape of a 
village. After he had crossed the great post- 
road from Sienna to Rome, Gerald entered a 
tract of almost perfect desolation. 

He bought two loaves of rye-bread and some 
•apples at a small house on the road, and Avith 
this humble provision slung in a handkerchief 
at his side, set out once more. At first, it AA’as 
rather a relief to him to be utterly alone ; his 
own thoughts Avere his best companions, and he 
Avould have shrunk from the questionings his 
appearance Avas certain to elicit ; but as the 
time Avore on, and noAv the noon of the second 
day Avas passed, he felt the dreariness of the 
solitude creejiing OA^er him, and Avould gladly 
have met Avith one Avith Avhom he could have 
interchanged even a fcAv Avords of greeting. 
Not ■ a human trace, hoAvever, Avas noAv to be 
seen ; for he had gained that loAV-lying district 
Avhich, stretching beneath the mountain of Bol- 
seno, extends, in patches of alternate lake and 
land, to the verge of the Maremma. This tract 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


IS not even sheep-walk, and although in mid- 
■vrinter the sportsman may venture in pursuit of 
the wild duck or the mallard, the pestilential 
atmosphere produced hy summer heat makes 
the spot unvisited. Gerald was not long a 
stranger to the sickly influences of the place : 
a strange sense of dizziness would now and then 
come over him — something less than sickness, 
but usually leaving him confused and half 
stunned ; great weariness, too, beset him — a de- 
sire to lie down and sleep, so strong as almost 
to be irresistible, seized him ; but a dread of 
wild beasts — not unfrequent in these places — 
enabled him to conquer this tendency. The 
sun bore down with all his noonday force upon 
him, while an offensive odor from the stagnant 
waters oppressed him almost to choking. He 
walked on, however, on and on, but almost like 
one in a dream. Thoughts of the past super- 
seded all sensations of the present in his mind, 
and he fancied he was back once more iii the 
old college of the Jesuit fathei’s. He heard tlie 
bell that summoned him to the school-room, 
and he hastened to put himself in his place, 
marching with crossed armt and bent-down 
head, in accustomed fashion. Then he heard 
his name called aloud, and one of the fathers 
told him to stand aside, for he was “up” for 
punishment ; and Era Luke evas there, wishing 
to speak to him, but not admitted ; and then — 
how he knew not — but he was gazing on griz- 
zly bears and white-tusked boars, in great cases; 
and there they stood spell-bound and saemge, 
but unable to spring out, though it was but glass 
confined them ; and through all these scenes the 
wild strains of the tarentella sounded, and the 
light gestures and wistful looks of Marietta, 
whose hair, however, was no longer dark, but 
golden and bright, like the Contessina’s. And 
as suddenly all changed, and there stood the 
Contessina herself, with one hand pressed to 
her eyes, and she was weeping, and Gerald felt 
— but how he did not know — he had offended 
her ; and he trembled at his fault and hated 
himself, and, stooping down, he fell at last at 
her feet, and sobbed for pardon. And there he 
lay, and there night found him sleeping — the 
long sleep that awakes to feA'er. Damp mists 
arose, charged with all the deadly vapors of the 
spot ; foul airs steamed from the hot earth, to 
mingle Avith his blood, and thicken and corrupt 
it. Though the sky Avas freckled Avith stars, 
this light Avas dimmed by the dull atmosphere 
that prevailed, for the place Avas deadly and 
pestilential. When day broke racking pains 
tortured him in every limb, and his head felt as 
though splitting Avith eA'ery throb of its arteries. 
A dreadful thirst, almost maddening in its crav- 
ing, Avas on him, and though a rivulet rippled 
close by, he could not craAvl to it ; and iioav the 
hot sun beamed down upon him, and the pierc- 
ing rays darted into his brain, piercing it in all 
directions — sending Avild fancies, horrible and 
gliastly A'isions through his mind. And com- 
bats Avith Avild beasts, and Avounds, and suffer- 
ing, and long days of agony and suspense, all 


27 

came pouring in upon him, as vial after vial of 
misery bathed his poor, distracted intellect. 

Three days of this half-conscious state — like 
so many long years of suffering they Avere — and 
then he sunk into the low torpor that forms the 
last stage of the fever. It AAms thus, insensible 
and dying, a traveler found him, as the third 
CA'ening Avas falling. The stranger stooped 
down to examine the almost lifeless figure, and 
it Avas long before he could convince himself 
that vitality yet lingered there ; from the dried 
and livid lips no breath seemed to issue ; the 
limbs fell heavily to either side, as they were 
moved ; and it Avas only after a most careful 
examination, that he could detect a flint flut- 
tering motion of the heart. 

Whether it AA'as that the case presented so 
little of hope, or that he aa'us one not much 
given to movements of charity, but the traA'eler, 
after all these investigations, turned again to 
pursue his path. He had not gone far, how- 
ever, Avhen, gaining the rise of a hill, he cast 
his eyes back over the dreary landscape, and 
again they fell upon that small mound of hu- 
man clay, motionless and still, beside the lake. 
MoA'ed l)y an impulse that, even to himself, Avas 
unaccountable, he returned to the spot, and 
stood for some minutes contemplating liim. It 
might be, that in the groAving shades of the 
evening, the gloomy desolation sjioke more 
touchingly to his heart ; it might be, that a 
feeling of compassionate pity stirred him ; as 
likely as either aa^us it a mere caprice, as, stoop- 
ing doAvn, he raised the Avasted form, and thrcAV 
it loosely OA’er one shoulder, and then strode 
out upon his Avay once more. 

The stranger Avas a man of great size and 
personal strength, and though heavily framed, 
possessed considerable activity. His burden 
seemed little to impede his movements, and al- 
most as little to engage his thoughts, and as he 
breasted the Avild mountain, or Avaded the many 
streams that crossed his path, he AA'ent along 
AA'ithout appearing to think more of him he aa’us 
rescuing. It Avas a long road, too, and it was 
deep into the night ere he reached a solitary 
house, in a little slip of land betAveen t\A'o lakes,- 
and over Avhose door a Avithered bough denoted 
a cabaret. 

• “ What, in the name of all the saints, haA'C 

you brought us here?” said an old man, avIio 
quickly responded to his knock at the door? 

“ I found him as you see beside the Lago-v 
scuro,” said the other, laying doAvn his burden. 
“ IIoAv he came there I can’t tell you, aiid I 
don’t suspect you'll ever get the report from 
himself.” 

“He’s not a contadino,” said the old man, 
as he examined the boy’s featiu-es, and then 
gazed uj)on the palms of his hands. 

“ N ) ; nor is he a Roman, I take it : he’s of 
German or English blood: that fair skin and 
blonde hair came from the north.” 

“ One of the CaAmlrista, belike !” 

“Just as likely one of the Circus people; 
but Avhy they should leave him there to die 


28 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


seems strange, except that strangers deem this 
JNIaremma fever a sort of plague, and, perhaps, 
when he was struck down, they only thought 
of saving themselves from the conta-iion.” 

“That wouldn't be human. Master Gabriel — ” 

“ Wouldn’t it, tliough !” cried the other, with 
a bitter laugh. “That’s exactly the name for 
it, caro Tipim. It is the beast of prey- — the tiger 
and lion — that defend thf’ir young; it is the 
mild rabbit and the tender woman that destroy 
theirs.” 

The old man shook his head, as though the 
controversy were too subtle for him, and, bend- 
ing down to examine the boy more closely, 
“What’s this. Master Gabriel?” said he, tak- 
ing a peculiar medal that hung suspended 
round his neck. 

“ He was a colleger of some sort certainly,” 
cried the other. “ It's clear, therefore, he wasn’t, 
as we suspected, one of the Cavalrista. I’ll tell 
you, Pippo; I have it: this lad has made his 
escape from some of the scmin iries at Rome, 
and in his wanderings has been struck down by 
the fever. The worthy Frati liave, ere this, 
told his parents that he died in all the hopes 
of the Church, and is an angel already — ” 

“ There, there,” interposed the other, rebuk- 
ingly ; “no luck ever came of mocking a ])ricst. 
Let’s try if we can do any thing for the lad. 
Tina will be up presently, and look to him;” 
and Avith this he spread out some leaves beside 
the w'all, and coA'ering them with a cloak, laid 
the sick boy gently on them. “There, see; 
his lips are moving — ho has swallowed some of 
the water — he’ll get about — I’ll swear to it!” 
cried the other. “ A fellow that begins life in 
that fashion, has always his mission for after 
years. At all events, Pippo, don't disturb me 
for the next twelve hours, for I mean to sleep 
so long ; and let me tell you, too, I have taken 
my last journey to Bon Conveuto. The letters 
may lie in the ])ost-office till doomsday, ere I 
go in search of them.” 

“Well, well, have your sleep out, and then — ” 

“And then?” cried the other, turning sud- 
denly round, as he was about to quit the room. 
“I wish to heaven, you could tell me, Avhat 
then !” 

The old man shook his head mournfully, 
heaved a heavy sigh, and turned away. 

Tina, a peasant girl, pale and sickly, but 
with that energy of soul that belongs to the 
Roman race, soon made her appearance, and at 
once addressed herself to nurse the sick boy. 
“I ought to know this Maremma fever well,” 
said slic, with a faint sigh; “it struck me down 
when a child, and has never left my blood 
since.” IMaking a polenta Avith some strong 
red Avine, she gave him a spoonful from time to 
time, and by covering him up Avarmly induced 
perspiration, the first crisis of the disease. 
“ There,” cried she, after some hours of assid- 
uous care; “there, he is safe; and God knoAvs 
if he’ll bless me for this night’s Avork after all ! 
It is a sad, dreary life, ev'en to the luckiest!” 

While Gerald lay thus — and it Avas his fate 


in this fashion to pass some six long Aveeks, ere 
he had strength to sit up, or moA'e about the 
house — let us say a fcAVAvords cf those to Avhose 
kindness he OAved his life. Old l’ip])o Baldi had 
kept the little inn of Borghetto all his life. It 
AV'as his father’s and grandfather's before him. 
Situated in this dreary, uiiAvliolesome tract, Avith 
a mere mountain bridle-]iath — not a road — 
leading to it, there seemed no reason Avhy a 
house of entertainment — even the humblest — 
could be Avanted in such a spot ; and, indeed, 
the lack of all comfort and accommodation be- 
s] oke hoAV little trade it droA'C. The “Tana,” 
liOAveA^er, as it Avas called, had a brisk business 
in the long dark nights of Avinter, since it Avas 
here that the smugglers from the Tuscan fron- 
tier resorted, to dispose of their AAares to th.e 
up-country dealers ; and bargains for many a 
thousand scudi Avent on in that dieary old 
kitchen, Avliile bands of armed contrabandieri 
scoured the country. To keep oft' the l^ope’s 
carbineers — in case that redoubtable corps could 
persuade themseh^es to adventure so far — the 
Maremma fever, a malady that feAv ever eradi- 
cated from their constitution, Avas the best pro- 
tection the smugglers ]',os.sessed ; and the Tana 
Avas thus a sanctuary as safe as the rocky i.-l- 
ands that lay oft' ^t. Ste])hano. A dispirted 
question of boundary also added to the safety 
of the spot, and continual litigation Avent on 
betAveen the courts of Florence and Rome, as to 
Avhich the territory belonged — contests, that the 
scandal-monging AAwld implied might long since 
have been terminated, had not the Cardinal- 
Secretary Manini been suspected of some secret 
league Avith the smugglers. The I’ana Avas, 
therefore, a sort of refuge, and more than one 
graA’ely compromised by crime, had sought out 
that humble hostel, as his last place of security. 
To the refugee from the north of Italy it Avas 
easily aA'ailable, lying only a fcAv miles beyond 
the Tuscan frontier, Avhile it Avas no less open 
to those Avho gained any port of the shore near 
St. Stephano. 

In a Avild and melancholy AA'aste, Avith tAvo 
dark and motionless lakes, girt in bv Ioav 
mountains, the Tana stood, the very ideal of 
desolation. The strip of land on Avhich it Avas 
built Avas little Avider than a mere bridge be- 
tAveen the lakes, and had evidently been select- 
ed as a position capable of defense against the 
assault of a strong force, and tAvo rude breast- 
Avorks of stone yet bore Avitness that a military 
eye Ifad scanned the place, and improved its ad- 
A'antages. Within, a stray loop-hole for mus- 
ketry still shoAved that defense had occupied the 
spirits of those Avho held it, Avhile a Ioav, flat- 
bottomed boat, moored at a stake before the 
door, provided for escape in the last extremity. 
The great curiosity of the place, however, Avas 
a kind of large hall, or chamber, Avhere the 
smugglers transacted business Avith their cus- 
tomers ; and the Avails of Avhich had been dec- 
orated with huge frescoes, in charcoal, by no 
less a hand than Franzoni himself, Avhose fate 
it had once been to pass months here. Taking 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


29 


fov h.s su1)jects tho lives of the various refugees 
who had sojourned in the Tana, he had illus- 
trated them in a series of bold and vigorous 
sketches, and assuredly every breach of the De- 
calogue had here its portraiture, with some ac- 
companying legend beneath to show in whose 
honor the picture had been painted. Pippo, who 
had supplied from memory all the incidents 
thus communicated, regarded these as perfect 
treasures, and was wont to show them with all 
the pride of a connoisseur. “The maestro,” so 
he ever called Franzoni, “The maestro,” said 
he, “never saw Cimballi, who strangled the 
Countess of Soissons, and yet, just from my de- 
scription, he has made a likeness his brother 
would swear to. And, there, look at that fel- 
low asking alms of the Cardinal Frescobaldi, 
that’s Fornari. He’s merely there to see the 
cardinal, and he’s sure he can recognize him ; 
for he is engaged to stab him, on his way to the 
Qiiirinal, the day of his- election, for Pope. The 
little fellow,, yonder, with the hump, is the Piom- 
bino, who poisoned liis mother. He was drown- 
ed in the lake, out there. I don’t think it was 
quite fair of the maestro to paint him in that 
fashion and here he would point to a little 
hump-backed creature rowing in a boat, with 
the devil steering, the flashing eyes of the fiend 
seeming to feast on the tortures of fear depicted 
in the other’s face. 

Several there were of a humorous kind. Here, 
a group of murderous ruffians were kneeling to 
receive a pontifical blessing. Here, a party of 
Papal carbineers were in full flight from the [)ur- 
suit of a single horseman armed with a bottle ; 
while, in an excess of profanity that Pippo shud- 
dered to contemplate, there was a poi-trait of 
himself, as a saint, offering the safeguard of the 
Tana to all persecuted sinners ; and what an ill- 
favored assemblage were they who thus congre- 
gated at his shrine ! 

We had not dwelt thus long on the frescoes 
of the Tana were it not that it was here, and 
amid these strange fragments of contemporary 
history, the days of poor Gerald’s convalescence 
were passed. 

Few of us, dear reader, have not known what 
it is to taste of that curious existence, when is- 
suing out of suffering and the dreary sorrows of 
the sick bed, we begin to live again in all the 
freshness of uncloyed pleasure ; how grateful to 
us then are the simplest of those enjoyments we 
had scarce deigned to notice in the days of our 
strength — how balmy every odor — how softly 
soothing every breath of air — how suggestive 
each cloud-shadow on the still mountain side — 
and how thrilling the warble of the mellow black- 
bird that sings from the deep copse near. What 
an ecstasy, too, is the very stillness — the silence 
that we can drink in Avithout a pain to break its 
calming influence upon our souls. There is a 
strange retentiveness attached to these moments 
which all the most stirring scenes of after-life 
never succeed in effacing; and the tritest inci- 
dents, the most commonplace events, leave an 
impress which endure with us to the last. 


Let us then imagine the poor boy, as days 
long he lay .gazing on the singular groupings, 
and strange scenes, these Avails presented. At 
first, to his half-settled intellect, they were but 
shapes of horror, Avild and incongruous. The 
savage faces that scowled on him in paint, sat, 
in his dreams, beside his pillow. The terrible 
countenances and frantic gestures Avere carried 
into his sleeping thoughts, and often did he 
aAvake, AV'ith a cry of agony, at some fearful 
scene of crime thus suggested. As his mind ac- 
quired strength, hoAvever, they became a source 
of endless amusement. Innumerable stories 
greAv out of them ; romances, Avhose adA-entures 
embraced e\'ery land and sea ; and his excited 
imagination rcA’eled in inventing trials and mis- 
eries for some, Avliile for others he sought out 
every possible escape from disaster. His soli- 
tude had no need of either companionship or 
books ; his mind, stimulated by these sketches, 
could inv'ent unwcaricdly, so that, at last, he 
really liA'ed in an ideal Avorld, peopled with dar- 
ing adventurers, and abounding in accidents by 
flood and field. 

It Avas Avhile thus musing he lay stretched 
upon his bed of chestnut leaves that the door 
opened quietly, and a large, poAverfullA'-built 
man entered, and AA’alking, Avith noiseless steps, 
forward, placed a chair in front of Gerald, and 
sat down. The boy gazed steadfastly at him, 
and so they remained a considerable time, each 
staring fixedly on the other. To one Avho, liko 
Gerald, had passed Aveeks in Aveaving histories 
from the looks and expressions of the faces 
around him, the features on Avhich he now gazed 
might Avell excite interest. NeA^er was there, 
perhaps, a face in Avhich adverse and conflicting 
passions Avere more palpably depicted. A noble 
and massive head, covered Avith a profusion of 
black hair, rose from temples of exquisite- sym- 
metry, greatly indented at either side, and form- 
ing the Avails of two orbits of singular depth. 
His eyes Avere large, dark, and lustrous, the ex- 
pression usually sad ; here, hoAvever, ended all 
that indicated good in the face. The nose Avas 
short, Avith Avide expanded nostrils, and the 
mouth large, coarse, and sensual ; but the loAver 
jaAv it was, of enormous breadth, and projecting 
fbrAvard, that gave a character of actual ferocity 
that recalled the image of a Avild boar. Tlie 
Avhole meaning of the face Avas. poAA'er — poAver 
and indomitable Avill. Whatever he meditated 
of good or evil, you could easily predict that 
nothing could divert him from attempting ; and 
there was in the carriage of his head, all his 
gestures, and his air, the calm self-possession of 
one that seemed to say to the world, “I defy 
you.” 

As Gerald gazed, in a sort of fitscination, at 
these strange features; he Avas almost startled 
by the tone of a voice so utterly unlike Avhat he 
Avas prepared for. The stranger spoke in a low, 
deep strain, of exquisite modulation, and Avith 
that peculiar melloAvness of accent that seems to 
leave its echo in the heart after it. He had 
merely asked him hoAV he felt, and then seeing 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


SO 

the difficulty with which the boy replied, he 
Avent on to tell how he himself had discovered 
him on the side of the Lago-scnro, at nightfall, 
and carried him all the Avay to the Tana. “The 
lack was,” said he, “that you hajApened to be 
light, and I strong.” 

“ Sav, rather, that were kind-hearted and 
/ in trouble,” muttered the boy, as his eyes 
filled up. 

“And who knows, boy, but you may be right !” 
cried he, as though a sudden tliought had crossed 
him ; “ your judgment has just as much grounds 
as that of the great world!” As he spoke, his 
A'oice rose out of its tone of former gentleness, 
and swelled into a roll of deep, sonorous mean- 
ing ; then changing again, he asked — “By what 
accident was it that you came there ?” 

Gerald drew a long sigh, as though I'ecalling 
a sorrowful dream ; and then, with many a fal- 
tering word, and many an effort to recall events 
as they occurred, told all that he remembered 
of his OAvn history. 

“A scholar of the Jesuit College; Avithout 
father or mother ; befriended by a great man, 
Avhose name he has never heard, ” muttered the 
other to himself. “No bad start in life for such 
a Avorld as Ave have noAV before us. And your 
name ?” 

“ Gerald Fitzgerald. I am Irish by birth.” 

The stranger seemed to ponder long over 
these Avords, and then said: “The Irish haA'e a 
nationality of their own — a race — a language — 
traditions. Why haA’e they suffered themselves 
to be ruled by England?” 

“I suppose they couldn’t help it,” said Ger- 
ald, half-smiling. 

“Which of us can say that? Avho has CA'cr di- 
vined AAhere the strength lay till the day of 
struggle called it forth ! Chance — chance — she 
is the great goddess ! ” 

“I’d be sorry to think so,” said Gerald, reso- 
lutely. 

“Indeed, boy,” cried the other, turning his 
large, full eyes upon the youth, and staring 
steadfitstly at him ; then passing his hand OA^er 
his broAA’, he added, in a tone of mueh feeling, 
“And yet it is as I have said. Look at the 
portraits around ns on these Avails. There they 
are, great or infamous, as accident has made 
them. That felloAV yonder, Avith that noble 
forehead and generous look, he stabbed the con- 
fessor Avho-gaA’c the last rites to his father, just 
because the priest had heard some tales to his 
disadA^antage — a scrupulous sense of dclicac}'^ 
moA^ed him — there Avas a Avoman’s name in it — 
and he preferred a murder to a scandal ! There, 
too, there’s Marocchi, Avho poisoned his mother 
. the day of her second mtirriagc. Ask old Pippo 
if he CA'er saAV a gentler-hearted creature ; he 
lived here two y^ears, and died of the Maremma 
fcA’er, that he caught from a peasant Avhom he 
was nursing. And there again, that Avild- look- 
ing fellow, Avith the scarlet cap — he it Avas stole 
the Medici jewels out of the Pitti, to give his 
mistress ; and killed himself afterAvard, Avhen 
she deserted him. Weigh, the good and evil of 


these men’s hearts, boy, and you have subtle 
Aveights if you can strike the balance for or 
ag::'nst them. We are all but Avhat good or 
evi. fortune makes us, just as a landscape catches 
its tone from light, and Avhat is glorious in 
sunshine, is bleak, and desolate, and dreary, 
beneath a leaden sky and loAvering atmos- 
jDhere ! ” 

“I’ll not believe it,” said the boy, boldly. 
“ I have read of felloAvs that never shoAved the 
great stuff they Avere ngade of till adversity had 
called it forth. They were truly great !” 

“ Truly great !’’ repeated the other, Avith an 
intense mockery. “The truly great Ave neA'cr 
hear of. They die in Avorkhouses or garrets — 
poor, dreary optimists, w’orking out of their fine- 
spun fancies hopeful destinies for those Avho 
.sneer at them. The idols men call great are 
but the types of Force — mere Force. One duy 
it is courage ; another, it is money ; another 
day, political craft is the object of Avorship. 
Come, boy,” said he, in a lighter vein, “Avhat 
haAm these Avorthy Jesuits taught you ?” 

“ Very different lessons from yours,” said the 
youth, stoutly. “They taught me to honor 
and reverence those set in authority over me.” 

“Good, and then — ” 

“ They taught me the principles of my faith ; 
the creed of the Church?” 

“What Church?” 

“What but the one Church — the Catholic !” 

“Why, there are fifty, child, and each Avith 
five hundred controversies within it. Popes de- 
nying Councils; Councils rejecting Popes; 
Synods against Bishops; Bishops against Pres- 
byters. What a mockery is it all !” cried he, 
passionat'dy. “We Avho, in our imperfect 
forms of language, hav’e not even names for 
separate odors, but say, ‘this smells like the 
violet,’ and ‘ that like the rose,’ presume to talk 
of eternity and that vast universe around us, as 
though our paltry vocabulary could compass 
such themes. But to come back : Avere you 
happy there?” 

“No; I could not bear the life, nor did I 
Avish to be a priest.” 

“AVhat Avould you be, then?” 

“I Avish I knew,” said the boy, felwently^ 

“I’m a bad counselor,” said "the other, Avith 
a half smile; “I have tried several things, and 
failed in all.” 

“I never could have thought that you could 
fail,” said Gerald, sloAvly, as in calm composure 
he gazed on the massive features before him. 

“1 haA’e done Avith failure noAv,” said the 
other; “ I mean to achieve success next. It is 
something to haA’e learned a great truth, and 
this is one, boy — our AA'orld is a huge hunting- 
ground, and it is better to play’ Avolf than lamb. 
Don’t turn your eyes to those Avails, as if the 
fellows depicted there could gainsay me — they 
AA’ere but sorry scoundrels, the bad ones; the 
best AA’ere but Aveakly good.” 

“You do but pain me when you speak thus,” 
said Gerald; “you make me think that you 
are one Avho, haA’ing done some great crimci^ 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


31 


. 'X'. 

waits to avengo the penalty he has suffered on 
the world that inflicted it.” 

“What if you were partly right, boy? Not 
but I would protest against the word crime, or 
even fault, as applied to me ; still you are near 
enough to make your guess a good one. I have 
a debt to pay, and I mean to pay it.” 

“I wish I had never quitted the college,” 
said the boy, and the tears rolled heavily down 
his cheeks. 

“ It is not too late to retrace your steps. The 
cell and the scourge — the flithers know the use 
of both — will soon condone your offense ; and 
when they have sapped the last drop of man- 
hood out of your nature, you will be all the fit- 
ter for your calling.” 

With these harsh words, uttered in tones as 
cruel, the stranger left the room ; while Gerald, 
covering his face with both hands, sobbed as 
though his heart were breaking. 

“ Ah ! Gabriel has been talking to him ; I 
knew how it would be,” muttered old Pippo, as 
he cast a glance within the room. “Pool: 
child ! better for him had he left him to die in 
the Maremma.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE “COUR” op the ALTIEEI. 

A LONG autumn day was drawing to its close, 
in Rome, and gradually here and there might be 
seen a few figures stealing listlessly along, or 
seated in melancholy mood before the shop- 
doors, trying to catch a momentary breath of 
air ere the hour of sunset should fall. All the 
great and noble of the capital had left a month 
before, for the sea-side, or for Albano, or the 
shady valleys above Lucca. You might walk 
for days and never meet a carriage. It was a 
city in complete desolation. The grass sprang 
up between the stones, and troops of seared 
leaves, carried from the gardens, littered the 
empty streets. The palaces were barred up 
and fastened, the massive doors looking as if 
they had not opened for centuries. In one 
alone, throughout the entire city, did any signs 
of habitation linger, and here a single lamp 
threw its faint light over a wide court-yard, 
giving a ghost-like air to the vaulted corridors 
and dim distances around. All was still and 
silent within the walls — not a light gleamed 
from a window — not a sound issued. A solitary 
figure 'valked, with weary footsteps, up and 
down, stopping at times to listen, as if ho heard 
the noise of one approaching, and then resum- 
ing his dreary round again. 

As night closed in, a second stranger made 
his appearance, and timidly halting at the por- 
ter’s lodge, asked leave to enter; br.t the ])orter 
had gone to refresh himself at a neighboring 
cafe, and the visitor passed in of his own ac- 
cord. He was in a friar’s robe, and by his 
dusty dress and tired look showed that he came 
off a journey ; indeed, so overcome was he with 
fatigue that he sat down at once on a stone 


bench, depositing a heavy hag tliat he carried 
beside him. The oppressive heat, the fatigue, 
the silence of the lonesome spot, all combined, 
composed him to sleep ; and poor Fra Luke, for 
it was he, crossed his arms before him, and 
snored away manfully. 

Astonished by the deep-drawn b 'cathing, the 
other stranger drew nigh, and, as well as the 
imperfect light permitted, examined him. He 
himself was a man of immense stature, and, 
though bowed and doubled by age, showed the 
remnant of a powerful frame ; his dress was 
worn and shabby, but in its cut, and in the 
fiishion he wore it, bespoke the gentleman. He 
gazed long and attentively at the sleeping Fra, 
and then, approaching, he took up the bag that 
lay on the bench. It was weighty, and con- 
tained money, a considerable sum, too, as the 
stranger remarked, while he replaced it. The 
heavy bang of a door, at this moment, and the 
sound of feet, however, recalled him from this 
contemplation, and, at the same time, a low 
whistle was heard, and a voice, in a subdued 
tone, called out, “O’Sullivan.” 

“ Here,” cried the stranger, who was quickly 
joined by another. 

“ I am sorry to have kept you so long. Chief,” 
said the latter; “ but he detained me, watching 
me so closely too, that I feared to leave the 
room.” 

“ And how is he — better?” 

“Fai from it ; he seems to me sinking every 
hour. His irritability is intense, eternally ask- 
ing who have called to inquire after him — if 
Boyer had been to ask — if the Cardinal Caraffa 
had come. In fact, so eagerly set is his mind 
on these things, I have been obliged to make 
the coachman drive repeatedly into the court- 
yard, and by a loud uproar without convey the 
notion of a press of visitors.” 

“Has he asked after Barra, or myself?” said 
the chieftain, after a pause. 

“Yes ; he said twice, ‘ We must have bur old 
followers up here — to-morrow or the next day.’ 
But his minu is scarcely settled, for he talked 
of Florence and the duchess, and then went off 
about the insult of that arrest in France, which 
preys upon him. incessantly.” 

“ And why should it not, Kelly? Was there 
ever such baseness as that of Louis ? Take my 
word for it, there’s a heavy day of reckoning to 
come to that house yet for this iniquity. It’s a 
sore trouble to me to think it will not bo in my 
time, but it is not far off.” 

“Every thing is possible now,” said KolB. 
“Heaven knoxvs what’s in store for any of us. 
Men are talking in a way I never heaid before. 
Boyer told me, two days ago, that the garrison 
of Paris was to be doubled, nd Vincennes jilaced 
in a perfect staie of defense.” 

A bitter laugh from the old chieftain showed 
he I'elished these symptoms of terror. 

“It will be no laughing matter when it 
comes,” said Kelly, gravely. 

“But who hdve called here? Tell me their 
names,’’ said the ( hi -.f, sternly. 


32 GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“Not one, not one — stay, I am wrong. The 
cripple who sells the water-melons at the corner 
of the Bahuino, he has been here; and Giac- 
chino, the strolling actor, comes every morning 
and says, ‘ Give ray duty to his Royal High- 
ness.’” 

A muttered curse broke from O’Sullivan, and 
Kelly went on, “It was on Wednesday last he 
wished to have a mass in the chapel here, and 
I went to the Quirinal to say so. They should, 
of course, have sent a cardinal ; but who came ? 
— the Vicar of Santa Maria maggiore. I shut 
the door in his face, and told him that the high- 
est of his masters might have been proud to 
come in his stead.” 

“ They are tired of us all, Kelly,” sighed the 
chieftain. “I have walked every day, of the 
eight long years 1 have passed here, in the Vat- 
ican gardens, and it was only yesterday a guard 
stopped me to ask if I were noble? — ay, by 
heaven, if I were noble ! I gulped down my 
passion and answered, ‘ I am a gentleman in 
the service of his Royal Highness, of England ;’ 
and he said, ‘That may well be, and yet give 
you no right to enter here.’ The old Cardinal 
Balfi was passing, so I just said to his Eminence, 
‘Give me your arm, for you are my junior by 
three good years.’ Ay, and he did it too, and 
I passed in ; but I'll go there no more ! no 
rnore !” muttered he, sadly. “Insults are hard 
to bear when one’s arm is too feeble to resent 
them.” 

Kelly sighed too ; and neither spoke for some 
seconds. “What heavy breathings are those I 
hear?” cried Kelly, suddenly; “some one has 
overheard us.” 

“Have no fears of that,” replied the other; 
“it is a stout friar, taking his evening nap, on 
tlie stone bench yonder.” 

Kelly hastened to the spot, and by the strug- 
gling gleam of the lamp could just recognize 
Fra Luke, as he lay sleeping, snoring heavily. 

“You know him, then?” asked O’Sullivan. 

“That do I ; he is a countryman of ours, 
and as honest a soul as lives ; but yet I’d just 
as soon not see him here. Fra Luke,” said he, 
shaking the sleeper’s shoulder, “Fra Luke. By 
St. Joseph ! they must have hard mattresses up 
there at the convent, or he’d not sleep so sound- 
ly here.” 

The burly friar at last stirred, and shook him- 
self, like some great water-dog, and then turn- 
ing his eyes on Kelly, gradually recalled wdiere 
he was. “Would he see me, Laurence ; would 
he just let me say one word to him?'’ muttered 
he in Kelly’s ear. 

“Impossible, Fra Luke, he is on a bed of 
sickness. God alone knows if he is ever to rise 
up from it !” 

The Fra bent his head, and for some min- 
utes continued to pray with great fervor, then 
turning to Kelly, said, “If it’s dying he is, 
there’s no good in disturbing his last moments; 
but if he was to get well enough to hear it, 
Laurence, will you promise to let me have two 
or three minutes beside his bed ? Will you, at 


least, ask him if he’d see Fra Luke ? He’ll know 
why himself.” 

“ My poor fellow,” said Kelly, kindly ; “ like 
all the world, you fancy that the things which 
touch vourself must be nearest to the hearts of 

tf 

others. I don’t want to learn your secret, 
Luke — Heaveji knows I have more than I wish 
for in my keeping already ! — but take my word 
for it, the Prince has cares enough on his mind, 
without your asking him to hear yours.” 

“ Will you give him this, then?” said the Fra, 
handing him the bag with the money ; “there’s 
a hundred crowns in it, just as he gave it to me, 
Monday was a fortnight. Tell him that — ” here 
he stopped and wiped his forehead, in confusion 
of thought ; “tell him, that its not wanting any 
more for — for what he knows — that it’s all over 
now ; not that he’s dead, though — God be 
praised ! — but what am I saying ? Oh, dear ! 
oh, dear ! after my swearing never to speak of 
him !” 

“You are safe with me, Luke, depend, on 
that. Only, as to the money, take my advice, 
and just keep it. He’ll never want to hear 
more of it. Many a hundred crowns have left 
this on a worse errand, whatever be its fate.” 

“ I wouldn’t, to save my life ! I wouldn’t, if 
it was to keep me from the galleys !” 

“Have your own way, then,” said Kelly, 
sharply ; “I must not loiter longer here ;” and 
so saying, he took the bag from the Friar’s hand, 
and moved over toward wdiere O’Sullivan was 
standing. 

“ Come along home with me. Friar,” said 
O’Sullivan, as Kelly wished them good night ; 
“I’ll give you a glass of Vermuth, and we’ll 
have a talk about the old country.” 


CHAPTER X. 

GABRIEL DE . 

“ I AviSH I knew how I could ever rcpa}* you, 
Pippo, for all your kindness to me,” said Ger- 
ald, as he sat, one fine evening, with the old 
man at the door; “but when I tell you that I 
am as poor and as friendless in the Avorld as on 
that same night when Signor Gabriel found me 
beside the Lake — ” 

“Not a whit poorer, or more alone in the 
Avorld than the rest of us,” said Pippo, good- 
naturedly. “We have all a rough journey be- 
fore us in life, and the least Ave can do is to 
help one another.” 

The youth grasped the old man’s hand and 
] ressed it to his heart. 

“Besides,” continued Pippo, “all your grat- 
itude is OAving to Signor Gabriel himself. Any 
little comforts you have had here have been of 
his procuring. He it Avas fetched that doctor 
from Bolseno, and his OAvn hands carried the 
little jar of honey from St, Stephano.” 

“What a kind heart he has,” cried Gerald, 
eagerly. 

“Well,” said Pippo, with a dry, odd smile. 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


33 


“that’s not exactly whnt j cople say of him ; not 
but lie can do a kind thing too, just as he can 
do any thing.” 

“Is he so clever then?” asked Gerald, curi- 
ously. 

“Is he not !” exclaimed Pijipo — “where has 
he not traveled — what has he not seen ! And 
then the books he has written — Stores of them, 
they tell me : he’s always writing still — whole 
nights through ; after which, instead of going 
to his bed, like any one else, he is off for a 
plunge in the lake there, though I’ve told him 
over and over, that the water that kills fish can 
never be healthy for a human !” 

“What a strange nature it must be. And 
what brings him here ?” 

“ That’s his secret, and it would be wine too, 
if I knew it ; for, I promise you, he’s not one 
its over safe to talk about.” 

“Where does he come from?” 

“ He’s French, and that’s all I can tell you,” 

“It can’t be for the ‘chasse’ he comes here,” 
said Gerald, musingly. “There’s no game in 
these mountains. It can scarcely be for seclu- 
sion, for he’s •Galways rambling away to some 
village or town near. It’s now more than a 
week since we have seen him. I w'ish I could 
make out who or what he is!” 

“Would you so?” cried a deep voice, as a 
large, heavy hand fell upon his shoulder ; “ and 
what would the knowledge benefit you, boy?” 
Gerald looked up, and there stood Gabriel. ' He 
was dressed in a loose peasant’s frock, and 
seemed by his mien as if come off a long day’s 
march. 

“ Go in, Pippo, and make me a good salad. 
Grill me that old hen yonder, and I’ll give you 
a share of a flask of Orvieto that was in the 
bishop’s cellar last night.” 

He threw off his knapsack as he spoke, and 
removing his hat, w'ij^ed his heated forehead, 
and then turning to the youth at his side, he 
said — “ So, boy, I am a sort of mystery to you, 
it seems — inayhap, others share in that same 
sentiment — at least I have heard as much. But 
Avhence this curiosity on your part? You Averc 
a stranger to me, and you arc so still. What 
can it signify to cither of us w’hat has gone be- 
fore — ere we met and knew each other? Life 
is not a river running in one bed, but a series 
of streams that follow fifty channels — some ])urc 
and limpid — some, perchance, turbid and foul 
enough. What you have been gives no guar- 
antee to Avhat you may be — remember that!” 

He spoke wdth a tone of sternness that made 
his words sound like reproof, and the youth 
held down his head abashed and ashamed. 

“Don’t suppose I am angry with you,” con- 
tinued the other, but in the self-same tone as 
before; “nor that I regard this curious desire 
of yours as ingratitude. You oavc mo nothing, 
or next to nothing, and you’re a rare instance 
of such in life, if within the next ten years the 
wish will not occur to you at least twenty times, 
that I had left you to die beside the dark shores 
ofBolseno!” 


“I can Avell believe it may bo so,” said Ger- 
ald, with a sigh. 

“Not that this is my own philosophy,” said 
the other, in a voice of j)Owerfnl meaning. “I 
soon made the discovery that life was not a gar- 
den, but a hunting ground, and that the wolves 
had the best of it! Ay, boy,” cried he, wdth a 
kind of savage exultation — “there’s the experi- 
ence of one, Avhose boast it is to know something 
of his fellows !” 

Gerald was silent, and for some time Gabriel, 
also, did not speak. At last, looking steadfastly 
at the youth, he said : “I have been up to Rome 
these last three days. My errand there was to 
learn something about yon.’’' 

“About me,'' said Gerald, blushing deeply. 

“Yes. It was a whim — (I am the slave of 
such caprices) — seized me to learn how you came 
among the Jesuit brothers, and why you left 
them.” 

“I thought I had told you why, myself,” 
said the youth, proudly. 

“ So you had ; but I am one of those w'ho can 
only build on the foundation their own hands 
have laid, and so I w'cnt myself to learn your 
history.” 

“And has the journey rcAvarded your exer- 
tions ?” said the boy, half mockingly. 

A sudden start, and a look of almost savage 
ferocity on Gabriel’s features made Gerald trem- 
ble for his own rashness ; and then, with a meas- 
ured voice, he repeated the boy’s words — 

“ The journey has rewarded my exertions.” 

“ May I venture to ask what you have dis- 
covered?” said Gerald, timidly. 

‘ ‘ I went to satisfy my own curiosity, not 
yours, boy. What I have learned may suffice 
for the one, and not for the other. Here comes 
Pippo wdth pleasanter tidings than all this gos- 
sip,” said he, rising, and entering the house. 

“ Won’t you come in and have a bit of sup- 
per with us, Gerald?” asked Pippo, kindly. 

“No, I can not cat,” said the boy, as he wdped 
the tears from his eyes. 

“ Come and taste a glass of the generous Or- 
vieto, lioweA'er.” 

“No, Pippo; I could not swallow' it,” said 
he, ill a half-choking I'oice. 

“Ah!” muttered the old man, wdth a sigh, 
“ Signor Gabriel’s talk rarely makes one relish 
the meal they ivait for,” and wdth bent dow'n 
head he re-entered the hut. 

The feeling Gerald had long experienced to- 
ward Gabriel was one of fear, almost verging 
upon terror. There was about the man’s look, 
his voice, his manner, something that portended 
danger. Do ivhat he ivould, the boy never 
could make his sense of gratitude rise superior 
to his fear. He tried, over and over again, to 
think of him only as one who had saved his life, 
and to whom he owed all the present comforts 
he enjoyed ; but above these thoughts there tri- 
umphed a tendble dread of the man, and a 
strange mysterious belief that he possessed a 
sort of control over his destiny. 

“If it were indeed so,” muttered he to him- 


C 


34 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


self, “and that his shadow were to be over me 
through life, I’d curse the day he carried me 
from the shore of the Lago-Oscuro ! ” Night 
was rapidly closing in, and the dreary landscape 
was every moment growing sadder and drearier. 
As the sun sank beneath the hills the heavy ex- 
halations began to well up from the damp earth, 
till a bluish haze of vapor rested over the plains 
and even partly up the mountain side. An odor, 
oppressive and sickening, accompanied this mist, 
which embarrassed the respiration, and made 
the senses dull and weary ; and yet there sat 
Gerald, drinking in these noxious influences, 
careless of his fate, and half triumphing in his 
own indifference as to life. A drowsy stupor was 
rapidly gaining on him, when he felt his arm 
violently shaken, and, looking up, saw Gabriel 
'"at his side. In a grufl*, rude voice, he chided 
him for his imprudence, and told him to go in. 

“Isn’t my life, at least, my own?” said Ger- 
ald, boldly. 

“That is it not,” said the other. “Your 
priestly teachers might have told you that you 
hold it in trust for him who gave it. I, and 
men like me, would say that each of us here 
has his allotted task to do in life ; and that he 
is but a coward, or as bad as a coward, who 
skulks his share of it. Go in, I say, boy.” 

Gerald obeyed without a word ; and now a 
slavish sense of fear came over him, and he felt 
that this man swayed and controlled him as he 
pleased. 

“There, Gerald, drink that,” said Gabriel, 
filling him out a goblet of red wine. “That’s 
the liquor inspires the pious sentiments of the 
Bishop of Orvieto. From that generous grape- 
juice spring his Christian charities and his 
heavenly precepts. Let us see what miracles 
it can work upon two such sinful mortals as 
you and me. Well done, boy ; drain off an- 
other, ” and he refilled his glass as he sjioke. 

Old Pippo had retired and left them alone 
together. The moon was slowly rising beyond 
the lake, and threw a long yellow stream upon 
the floor, the only light in the chamber where 
they sat, thus giving a sort of solemnity to a 
moment when each felt too deeply sunk in his 
own thoughts for much conversation. 

“ Do you remark how that streak of moon- 
light seems to separate us, Gerald?” said Ga- 
briel. “ A superstitious mind would find food 
for speculation there, and trace some mysteri- 
ous meaning — perhaps a warning — from it. 
Are you superstitious?” 

“I can scarcely say I am not,” said the boy, 
diffidently. 

“None of us are,” said the other, boldly. 
“If we affect to despise spirits we are just as 
eager slaves of our own presentiments. What 
we dignify by the name of reason is just as often 
a mere jirompting of instinct. It amuses us to 
believe that we steer the bark of our destiny ; 
but the truth comes upon us at last, that the 
tiller was lashed when the voyage began.” 
After a long silence on both sides, Gabriel said, 
“I have told you, Gerald, that I made a jour- 


ney to Rome on your account. I have been to 
the Jesuit College ; conversed with the superi- 
or ; saw your cell, your torn school-books, your 
little table carved over with your pen-knife ; 
and, by a date scratched on a window-pane, 
w’as led to discover where you had passed the 
evening of the fifth of January.” 

“And did you go there also?” asked Gerald, 
cagerl}’’. 

“Ay, boy. I gave an afternoon to the Al- 
ticri and the cafe in front of it.” 

“You saw the Count, then?” 

“No, I liave not seen him,” said Gabriel, 
dryly. “He was away from Rome, at a villa, 
I believe ; but I have learned that, indignant at 
your flight from the Cardinal’s villa, he absolves 
himself of all farther interest in you.” 

“ Have you seen Fra Luke?” asked the boy, 
who now talked as if the other had known every 
incident of his life. 

“No; he too was away. In fact, Gerald, 
there was little to learn, and I came back very 
nearly as I went. I only know that you are 
about as much alone in the Avorld as myself. 
We are meet companions. You said, a while 
ago, you were curious to know who and what I 
was. You shall hear. I am of a good Pro- 
ven9al family, originally derived from Itah% 
We are counts, from a date before tlie Medici ; 
so much for blood. As to fortune, my grand- 
father Avas rich, and my own father enjoyed a 
reasonable fortune. I was, however, brought 
up to believe all men my brothers ; all interest- 
ed alike in serving and aiding each other : help- 
ing in the cause of that excellent thing Ave are 
pleased to call Humanity ; and as a creed firm- 
ly believing that — bating a chance yielding to 
temptation, a little backsliding noAv and then 
on the score of an eA'il passion — men and women 
Avere Avonderfully good, and AA ere on the road 
to be better. We Avere most ingenious in our 
devices to build up this belief. Aly father Avrote 
books and delivered lectures to proA'e it. He 
did more. He squandered all his patrimony in 
support of his theory, and he trained me uj) to 
be — Avhat I am.” And the last Avords Avere ut- 
tered in a voice of intense solemnity. 

“I am not going to give you a story of my 
life,” said he, after some time; “I mean only 
to let you hear its moral. Till I Avas eighteen 
I Avas taught to believe that men Avere honest, 
truthful, brave, and affectionate ; and that Avom- 
cn Avere pure-hearted, gentle, forgiving, and 
trustful. Before I Avas nineteen I kneAv men to 
be scoundrels; it took me about a year more to 
think Avorse of the others. Then began my 
real life. I ceased to be a dupe and felt a man. 
I am a quick learner, and I acquired their vices 
rapidly, all but one, that is still my stumbling- 
block— hypocrisy. All that I have done,” said 
he, in half soliloquy, “might have passed harm- 
lessly had I knoAA'n but hoAv to shroud it. Slan- 
der, theft, and seduction must not Avalk naked 
in this well-dressed Avorld; but, Avith fine clothes 
on, they make very good company. I Avas cu- 
rious to see if other lands Avere the same slaA’es 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


of conventionalities, and I traveled. I vent to 
Holland and to England ; I found both as bad, 
nay vorse, than France. If I obtained a mo- 
mentary success in life I was certain to be rob- 
bed of it by some allegation foreign to the ques- 
tion. My book was clever; but I had deserted 
my wife. My treatise was admirable ; but I 
had seduced tlie daughter of my protector. My 
views were just, right-minded, and true ; but I 
had robbed my father. Thus, with a subtlety 
the stupidest possess, they were able to detract 
from my genius by charging it with the defects 
of my character, as if it behooved one to pay the 
debts of the other. 1 went on insisting that it 
was my opinions alone were before the world ; 
they as steadily persisted in dragging myself 
there. At last they have had their will, and I 
wish them joy of the victory.” There was a 
savage trinm])h in his eyes as he spoke this that 
made Gerald tremble while he looked at him. 

“ If 5'on care for my story, boy,” resumed he, 
“old Pippo there will give it to you for a flask 
of Monte Pnlciano. He’ll tell you of all my 
cruelties in my first campaign in Corsica ; how 
1 won my wife by first blasting her reputation ; 
how I left her; how I was imprisoned and fined ; 
and how escaped from both by a seduction. If 
he forget the name, you may remind him of 
Sophie De Monnier. They beheaded me in 
efiigy for this at Dole. But why go on with 
vulgar incidents which have happened to so 
many ? It is the moral of 1 1 all I would impress, 
boy, which is this — take n 'thing from the world 
but solid gifts. Laugh at irs praises, and drink 
deep of its indulgences! Those born great are 
able to do this by prerogative ; you and I may 
succeed to it by skill. Remember, too, that my 
theory is a wdde, a most Catholic one ; and to 
follow it you need assume no special discipline, 
but be priest, soldier, statesman, scholar, just 
as you will. I have been all these in turn, and 
may be so again ; but whether I wear a cassock 
or a cuirass my knowledge of men will guide 
me to but one mode of dealing Avith them.” 

“There is nothing in what you have told me 
of your life to make me revere your principles,” 
said Gerald, with a courageous boldness. 

“ Because I have told you how I fell, and not 
how I Avas tempted ; because I have stooped to 
say of myself that which none dare say to my 
face ; because Avhatever I have been to the Avorld 
it AA'as that same Avorld fashioned me to. What 
Avould it aA'ail me that I made out a case of un- 
deserving hardships and injustice, proved my- 
self an injured, martyred saint; Avould your 
Avondering sympathy heal any, the least of those 
Avounds that fester here, boy? Every man’s 
course in life is but one sling of the pendulum. 
I have vowed that with mine I shall cleave the 
dense mob and scatter the A'ile multitude. As 
to you,” said he, suddenly turning his glaring 
eyes upon the youth, “you are free to leaA^e this 
to-morroAV. I’ll take care that you are safely 
restored to those you came from, if you like it. 
If you prefer you may remain here for a month 
or tAA'o; by that time I shall return.” 


“Are you going, then, from this?” asked 
Gerald. 

“Yes. I am on my trial at Aix, for cruelty 
and desertion of my Avife. They haA'e spread a 
report that I liaA’e no intention to appear ; that, 
having fled France, I mean never to return to 
it. Ere the Aveek’s over they shall learn their 
mistake. I shall be there before them ; and, if 
instances from the uses of court and courtiers 
are admissible, shoAA', that Avhen they prove mo 
guilty, they must be ready to include Versailles 
in the next prosecution. Watch this case, boy; 
I’ll send you the neAvspapers daily. Watch it 
closely, and you’ll see that the file is at Avork 
noiselessly noAV, but still at AVork on those old 
fetters that have bound mankind so long. But 
first say if you desire to stay here.” 

Gerald held down his head and muttered a 
half audible “Yes.” 

“ To-night, then, I AA'ill jot doAvn the names 
of certain books you ought to read. I shall 
leave you many others too, and take your 
choice among them. Read and think, and, if 
you arc able, Avrite too : I care not on Avhat 
theme so the thoughts be your OAvn.” Gerald 
Avished to thank him, but CA'en gratitude could 
not surmount the dread he felt for him. Ga- 
briel saAV the struggle that Avas engaged in the 
boy’s heart, and, smiling half sadly, said, “To 
our next meeting, lad.” 


CHAPTER XL 

LAST DAYS AT THE “TANA.” 

If Gerald breathed more freely the next 
morning, on hearing that Signor Gabriel had 
departed, it is, perhaps, no great Avonder. The 
Tana Avas not a A^ery agreeable “sejour.” 
Dreariness Avithin doors and Avithout — a poverty 
unredeemed by that graceful content Avhich so 
often sheds its influence OAxr humble fortune — 
a Avearisome round of life, these Avere the char- 
acteristics of a spot Avhich, in a manner, Avas 
associated in his mind Avith all the sufferings 
of a sick bed. Yet, no sooner had he learned 
that Gabriel Avas gone, than he felt as if a load 
Avere remoA'ed from his heart, and that CA'en by 
the shores of that gloomy lake, or on the sides 
of those barren hills, he might noAV indulge his 
own teeming fancies, and live in a Avorld of his 
own thoughts. 

It Avas no common terror that possessed him ; 
his studies as a child had stoi'cd his memory 
Avith many a dreadful story of Satanic tempta- 
tion. One, in particular, he remembered Avell, 
of St. Francis, Avho, accompanied by a chance 
traveler, had made a journey of several days ; 
but AvheneA’er the saint, passing some -holy 
shrine or sacred spot, Avould kneel to pray, the 
most terrible blasi)hemies Avould issue from his 
lips instead of prayer; for his felloAA'-traA'^eler 
Avas the evil one himself. What if Gabriel had 
some horrible mission of this kind. There Avas 
enough in his look, his manner, and his con- 


3G 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


verse to warrant the belief. He half laughed 
■when the thought first crossed his mind, but it 
came up again and again, gaining strength and 
consistency at each recurrence ; nor was the 
melancholy desolation of the scene itself ill 
suited to aid the dreary conjecture. Though 
Gabriel had confided to him the key of his 
chamber, where all his books were kept, Gerald 
l^asscd days before he could summon resolution 
to enter it. A vague terror — a dread to which 
he could not give shape or foi’m — arrested his 
steps, and he would turn away from the door 
and creep noiselessly down the stairs, as though 
afraid of confessing, even to himself, what his 
errand had been. 

At last, ashamed of yielding to this childish 
fear, he took a moment when old Pippo and 
his niece were at work in the garden, to ex- 
plore the long-dreaded chamber. The room 
was very different from what he had antici- 
pated, and presented a degree of comfort sin- 
gularly in contrast to the rest of the Tana. 
Maps and book-shelves covered the walls, with 
here and there prints, mostly portraits of cele- 
brated actresses. A large table was littered 
with letters and papers, left just as he had quit- 
ted the spot. Great piles of manuscript, too, 
show'ed what laborious hours had been spent 
there, wliile books of reference were strewn 
about, the pages marked by pencil notes and 
interlineations. All indicated a life of study 
and labor. One trait alone gave another and 
different impression ; it was a long rapier that 
hung over the fire-place, around whose blade, 
at about a foot from the point, was tied a small 
bow of slc}f-blue ribbon. As, curious to divine 
the meaning of this, Gerald examined the -weap- 
on closely, he perceived that the steel was stain- 
ed with blood up to the place where the ribbon 
■was attached. What strange, wild fancies did 
not the boy weave as he gazed on this curious 
relic. Some fatal encounter there had been. 
Doubtless the unwiped blood upon that blade 
had once swelled in a human heart. Some 
murderous hand had grasped that strong hilt, 
and some silk tresses had once been fastened 
■with that blue band which now marked where 
the blade had ceased to penetrate. “A sad 
tale, surely, would it be to hear,” said he, as 
he sat down in deep thought. 

Tired of these musings, he turned to the ob- 
jects on the table. The writings that w'ere 
scattered about showed that almost every spe- 
cies of composition had engaged his pen. Es- 
says on education, a history of the Illuminati, 
love songs, a sketch of Cagliostroa, paper on 
the commerce of the Scheldt, a life of Frederic, 
with portions of an unfinished novel, all indi- 
cated the habits of a daily laborer of literature. 
AYhile passages selected from classic authori- 
ties, with great care and research, evinced that 
much labor had been expended in cultivating 
that rich intelligence. 

The last work which had occupied his hand 
— it still lay open, with an unfinished sentence 
in the pen — was a memoir of the Pretender’s 


expedition in ’45. The name of Charles Ed- 
w'ard was like a spell to Gerald’s heart. From 
the earliest day he could remember he was 
taught to call him his own Prince, and among 
the prayers his infant lips had syllabled, none 
were uttered with more intense devotion than 
for the return of that true and rightful sovereign 
to the land of his fathers. And now how his 
eyes filled up, and his heart swelled, as a long- 
forgotten verse arose to his mind. He had 
learned it when its meaning w^as all mystery, 
but the clink of the rhythm had left it stored in 
his memory ; 

“ Though for a time we see 'VVliitehall 
With cobwebs hanging on tlie wall, 

Instead of gold and silver bright, 

That glanced with splendor day and night, 

With rich perfume 
In every room. 

That did delight that princely train. 

These again shall be. 

When the time we see. 

That the kiag shall enjoy his own again." 

Heavy and hot were the tears that rolled 
down the youth’s cheeks, -for he w'as thinking 
of home and long ago. Of that far-away home 
where loving hearts had clustered round him. 
He could recall, too, the little room, the little 
bed he slept in, and he pondered over his 
strange, forlorn destiny. And yet, thought he, 
suddenly, “What is there in my fate equal to 
that poor prince? I am a Geraldine, they say, 
but I have none to own or acknowledge me. 
Who knows in what of shame I came into the 
world, since none will call me theirs? This 
noble name is little better than a scoff upon 
me.” The boy’s heart felt bursting at this sad 
retrospect of his lot. “Would that I had never 
left the college,” cried he in his miseiy. 
“Another year or two had, doubtless, calmed 
down the rebellious longings of my heart for a 
life of action, and then I should have followed 
my calling liumbh*, calmly, perhaps content- 
edly.” 

Partly to divert his thoughts from this theme, 
he turned to the memoir of the Prince’s expe- 
dition, and soon became so deeply interested in 
its details as to forget himself and his own sor- 
ro-ws. Brief and sketchy as the narrative -u-as, 
it displayed in all the warm coloring of a ro- 
mance that glorious outburst of national chival- 
ry which gathered the chieftains around their 
sovereign — all the graces, too, of his owm capti- 
vating manner, his handsome person, his court- 
ly address, -were dwelt upon, exerting as they 
did an almost magical influence upon every one 
who came before him. The short and bloody 
struggle which began at Preston and ended at 
Culloden, w\as before his eyes, with all its er- 
rors exposed — all its mistakes displayed. ' Every 
fault of strategy dwelt upon, and every miscal- 
culation criticised. All the train of events 
Avhich might have occurred had this or that 
policy been adopted was set forth in most per- 
suasive form; till, •when the youth arose from 
the perusal, such a conviction w'as forced upon 
him that rashness alone had defeated the enter- 
prise, that he sprung to his feet, and paced the 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


37 


room ill passionate indignation. As lie thought 
over the noble devotion of Charles Edward’s 
followers, he felt as if such a cause could not 
die. “The right is there,” muttered he, “and 
there must yet be brave men who think so. It 
can not, surely, be possible that for one defeat 
so great a claim could be abandoned forever. 
Where is the Prince now? How is he occu- 
pied? Who are his adherents and counsel- 
ors?” were the questions which quickly suc- 
ceeded each other in his mind. “Would I 
were a soldier, that I could lay my services at 
his feet, or that I had skill or ability to aid his 
cause in any way.” 

He turned eagerly again to the memoir, 
whose concluding words were, “He landed 
once more in Prance, on the 20th of Septem- 
ber.” “ And that is now many a year ago,” 
said he, and with a dreary sigh, “mayhap, of 
his Avrecked fortune, not a plank now remains. 
Who could guide me in this matter — ivho ad- 
vise me ?” He knew of but one, and yet he 
shuddered at the idea of seeking counsel from 
Gabriel. The more Gerald reflected on it, the 
more was he assured that if he could obtain ac- 
cess to the Prince, his Royal Highness would 
remember his name. “ It is impossible,” 
thought he, “but that some of my fomily must 
have been engaged in his cause, or why should 
I, as a mere child, have been taught to pray 
each night for his success, and ask for a bless- 
ing on his head.” Yearning as his heart Avas 
for some high purpose in life, it sent a thrill 
of intense delight through him to think of such 
a destiny. 

It AA'as a part of the training in the Jesuit 
college, to induce the youth to select some 
saintly model for imitation in life, and Avhile 
some chose St. Francis Xavier, or St. Vincent 
de Paul, others took St. Anthony of Padua, St. 
Francis d’Assis, or any other illustrious martyr 
of the faith ; each votary being from the hour 
of his selection, a most strenuous upholder of 
the patron he assumed. Indeed, of the enthu- 
siasm in this respect, some strange and almost 
incredible stories ran, shoAving how, in their 
zeal, many had actually submitted to most 
painful self-tortures, to resemble the idols of 
their ambition. Hoav easy Avas it noAv for Ger- 
ald to replace any of these grim saints and 
martyrs by an image that actually filled his 
Avhole heart — one who possessed, every graceful 
attribute, and every attractive quality. The 
seed of hero-worship thus sown in his nature 
ripened to a haiwest A'cry different from that it 
Avas intended to bear, and Charles EdAA'ard oc- 
cupied the shrine some pious mart\r should 
have held. He little knew, indeed, hoAV easily 
afifections, nurtured for one class of objects, arc 
transferred to others totally unlike them, and 
hoAV often are the temples we rear and mean 
to dedicate to our highest and holiest aspira- 
tions made homes for most Avorltlly passions! 
And Avhat a strange chaos did that poor boy’s 
mind soon become ! for uoav he read Avhole 
days, and almost whole nights long, hurrying 


from his meals back to that lonely chamber, 
Avhere he loved to be. With the insatiable 
thirst for ncAV acquirement he tasted of all 
about him ; dramatists, historians, essay-A\Tit- 
ers, theologians ; the wildest theories of the 
rights of man, the most uncompromising assert- 
ers of divine authority for royalty, the suffer- 
ings and sorrows of noble-hearted missionaries, 
the licentious lives of courtly debauchees — all 
poured in like a strong flood OA’cr the soil of 
his mind, enriching, corrupting, ennobling, and 
debasing it by turns. Like some great edifice 
reared Avithout plan, his mind displayed the 
strangest and most opposite combinations, and 
thus the noble eloquence of Massillon, the Avit 
of Moliere, the epigrammatic pungency of Pas- 
cal, blended themselves Avith the caustic severi- 
ty of Voltaire, the touching pathos of Rousseau, 
and the knowledge of life so eminently the gift 
of Le Sage. To see that Avorld of Avhich these 
great men presented such a picture, became 
noAv his all-absorbing p>assion. To mingle Avith 
his fellow-men, as actor, and not spectator. 
To be one of that immense dramatis personte 
Avho moA'ed about the stage of life, seemed 
enougli for all ambition. The strong spii’it of 
ad\-enture lay deeply in his heart, and he felt 
a kind of pride to think that if any future suc- 
cess Avas to greet him, he could recall the days 
at the Tana, and say, there never Avas one Avho 
started in life poorer or more friendless. 

There Avas no exaggeration in this. His 
clothes were rags ; his shoes barely held to- 
gether, and the only covering he had for his 
head, Avas the little skullcap he used to Avear in 
school hours. Even old Pippo, began to scoff’ 
at his miserable appearance, and hinted a hope, 
that before the season of the contraband begun, 
Gerald would haA’c taken his departure, or been 
able to make a more respectable figure. As 
Gabriel had noAV been gone some AA-eeks, and 
no tidings AvliateA^er come of him, the old man’s 
reserve and deference daily decreased. He 
grumbled at Gerald’s habits of study, profitless 
and idle as they seemed to him, Avhile there 
Avas many a thing to be done about the house 
and the narden. He Avas not Aveak or sick noAv : 

o 

he could help to chop the Avood for Avinter fir- 
ing — he could raise those heavy Avater buckets 
that swung over the deep Avell in the garden — 
he could clraAv the net in the little stream be- 
hind the house, or trench about the feAV stunt- 
ed olives that struggled for life on the hill side. 
Gerald Avould Avillingly have done any or all of 
these, if the idea had ctccured to himself. He 
Avas not indolent by nature, and liked the A'ery 
fact of active occupation. As a task, hoAvcA^er, 
he rejected the notion at once. It savmred of 
seiwituilc to his mind, and who was this same 
Pippo who aspired to be his master ? 

Tlie more the boy’s mind became stored Avitli 
knoAvledgc, the fuller his intelligence greAv of 
great examples and noble instances — the more 
indignantly did he repulse the advances ofPi]> 
po’s compiinionsbip. “ What !” he Avould mut- 
ter to himself, “Leave Bossuet and his divino 


88 


GEKALD riTZGEKALD, 


teachings for his coarse converse I Quit the 
sarcastic intensity of Voltaire’s ridicule for the 
vulgar jests of this illiterate boor ! Exchange 
the glorious company of wits and sages, and po- 
ets and moralists, for a life of daily drudgery, 
with a mean peasant to talk to. Besides, I am 
not his guest, nor a burden upon his char ty. 
It is to Gabriel I ow'e my shelter here.” 

When driven by many a sarcasm to assume 
this position, Pippo gravely remarked — “True 
enough, boy, so long as he was here ; but he is 
gone nov^ and who’ll tell us will he ever come 
back. He may have been sentenced by the 
tribunal. At the hour we are talking here, he 
may be in prison — at the galleys, for aught we 
l;now ; and I promise you one thing, tliere’s 
many a better man there.” 

“And I, too, promise one thing,” replied 
Gerald, angrily, “ if he ever do come, he shall 
hear hoAV you have dared to speak of him.” 

Old Pippo started at the words, and his face 
became lividly pale, and muttering a few words 
l)eneath his breath, he left the spot. Nothing 
was farther from Gerald’s mind than any de- 
fense of Gabriel, for whom, do what he might, 
he could feel neither atfection nor gratitude. 
In what he had said he merely yielded to a mo- 
mentary impatienec to sting the old man by an 
angry reply. For the remainder of that day 
not a word was exchanged between them. 
They met and ])arted without saluting ; they 
sat silently opposite each other at their meals. 
The following day opened with the same cold 
distance between them, the old man barely ey- 
ing Gerald, when the youth Avas not observing 
him, and casting toAvard him glances of doubt- 
ful meaning. Too deeply engaged in his books 
to pay much attention to these signs of displeas- 
ure, Gerald passed his hours as usual in Gabri- 
el’s room. 

He Avas seated, thus reading, Avhen the door 
opened gently, and the old man’s niece enter- 
ed ; her step Avas so noiseless, that she Avas 
nearly beside Gerald's chair, before he noticed 
her. 

“ What is it, Tina,” said he, starting ; “ Avhat 
makes you look so frightened?” 

She placed her finger on her lip, a sign of 
caution, and looked anxiously around her. 

“He has not been cruel or angry Avith you, 
poor girl,” asked the boy ; “ tell me this ?” 

“No, Gerald,” said she, in a Ioav and broken 
A'oicc, “but there is danger OA'er you — ay, and 
near too, if you can’t escape it. He sent me 
last night over to St. Stephano, tAvelve Aveary 
miles across the mountain, after night-fall, to 
letch the Gobbino — ” 

“The Gobbino — Avho is he?” 

“The hunch-back, that Avas at the galleys, 
in Messina,” said the girl, trembling all over; 
and then Avent on, “and to tell him to come 
over to the Tana, for ho Avanted him.” 

“Well, and then- — ” 

“And, then, ’’muttered the girl, “and then,” 
and she made a pantomimic gesture of draAving 
a knife suddenly across the throat. “It is so 


with him, they say; he’d think no more of it 
than do I of killing a hen !” 

“No, no, Tina,” said the boy, smiling at her 
fears. “You Avrong old Pij)po and the Gobbo 
too. Take my Avord for it, there is something 
else he Avants him for ; besides, AA'hy should he 
dislike me? What haA'e I done to provoke 
such a vengeance ?” 

“PlaA'en’t you threatened him?” said the 
girl eagerly. “HaA’e you not said that Avhen 
Signor Gabriel comes back you Avill tell him 
something Pippo said of him ? Is that not 
enough ? Is the Signor Gabriel one Avho e\’er 
forgives an injury?” 

“I’ll not believe, I can’t believe it,” said 
Gerald, musingly. 

“But I tell you it is true ; I tell you I kncAV 
it,” cried the girl, passionately. 

“But Avhat am I to do, then? How can I 
defend myself?” 

“Fly — leave this — get over to Bolseno, or 
cross the frontier ; neither of them can folloAV 
you into Tuscany.” 

“Kemember, Tina, I have no money; I am 
almost naked ; I knoAv no one.” 

“What matters all that if you have life?” 
said she, boldly. 

“Well said, girl!” cried he, Avarmed by the 
same daring spirit that prompted her Avords. A 
slight noise in the garden underneath the Avin- 
doAv startled Tina, and she stepped quietly from 
the room and closed the door. 

It AA’as some time before Gerald could thor- 
oughly take in the full force of the emeigency 
that threatened him. He kncAv aa’cII that in 
the Italian nature the sentiment of A’engeance 
occu])ies no Ioav nor ignominious place, but is 
classed among high and generous qualities ; and 
that he Avho submits tamely to an injury is in- 
finitely meaner than the man Avho, at any cost 
of treachery, exacts his revenge for it. 

That a terrible vengeance Avas often exacted 
for some casual slight, even a random Avord, the 
youth Avell kncAv. These AA’ere the points of 
honor in that strange national character, of 
Avhich, CA’en to this hour, Ave knoAv less than of 
any people’s in Europe ; and, certainly, no crime 
could promise an easier accomjdishment or less 
chance of discovery. “Who is CA’er to know 
if I sunk under the Maremma fcA’cr?” said he, 
“and Avho to care?” He gazed out upon the 
lonesome Avaste of mountain, and the black and 
stagnant lake at its foot, and thought the spot, 
at least, Avas aa’cII chosen for such an incident. 
If there Avere moments in aa Inch the dread of a ■ 
terrible fate chilled his blood and made his heart 
cold Avith fear, there Avere others in Avhich the 
sense of peril rallied and excited him. The 
stirring incidents of his readings Avere full of 
such like adventures, and he felt a sort of hero- 
ism in seeing himself thus summoned to meet 
an emergency. “With this good rapier,” said 
he, taking doAvn Gabriel’s SAvord from its place, 

“ methinks I might offer a stout resistance. 
That blade, if I mistake not, already knoAvs the 
Avay to a man’s heart;” and he flourished tho 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


39 


weapon as to throw liimself into an attitude of 
defense. 

Too much excited to read, except by snatch- 
es, lie imagined to liis own mind every possible 
species of attack that might be made upon Iiim. 
He knew that a fair fight would never enter into 
their thoughts ; tliat, even before the fate re- 
served for liim would come the plan for their 
own security ; and so he pictured the various 
ways in wliich he might be taken unawares and 
disposed of without even a chance of reprisal. 
As night drew near his anxieties increased. 
The book in which from time to time he liad 
been reading was the “Life of Benvenuto Cel- 
lini,” an autobiography filled with tlie wildest 
incidents of personal encounter, and well suited 
to call up ideas of conflict and peril. Not less, 
however, was it calculated to suggest notions 
of daring and defiance ; for in every i)erilous 
strait and hair-breadth emergency the great 
Florentine disi)layed the noblest traits of calm 
and reasoning courage. “ They shall not do it 
without cost,” said Gerald, as he stole up noise- 
lessly to his room, never appearing at the sup- 
per-table, but retiring to concert his future steps. 
Gerald’s first care on entering his room was to 
search it thoroughly, though there was not a 
corner nor a cupboard capable of concealing a 
child. Ha went through the process of inves- 
tigation Avith all the diligence his readings 
prompted. He sounded the walls for secret 
panels, and the floor for trap-doors ; but all was 
so far safe. He next proceeded to barricade 
his door Avith chairs ; not, indeed, to prevent an 
entrance, but arrayed so skillfully that they 
must topple doAvn at the least touch, and thus 
apprise him of his peril if sleeping. He then 
trimmed and replenished his lamp, and Avith his 
trusty rapier at his side, lay doAvn, all dressed 
as he AA’as, to Avait Avhat might happen. 

He AAdio has experienced in life Avhat it is to 
lie Avatching for the daAvn of a day full of IleaA-- 
en knows Avhat fatalities, patiently expecting the 
sun to rise upon Avhat may proA^e his saddest, 
his last hour of existence ; even he, however, 
Avill fall short of imagining the intense anxiety 
of one who Avith aching ears Avatches for the 
slightest sound, the lightest footfall, or the Ioav- 
est Avord that may betoken the approach of dan- 
ger. With the intensity of the emotion the 
senses become preternaturally acute, and the 
brain ovei'charged Avith thought suggests the 
Avildest and strangest combinations. Through 
Gerald’s mind, too, Cellini’s daring adventures 
Avere passing. The dark and narrow streets of 
old Florence; the muffled “sbirri” eroAvding in 
the dim doorways ; the stealthy footsteps heard 
and lost again ; the sudden clash of swords and 
the cries of combat ; the shouts for succor, and 
the heavy plash into the dark Avaters of the 
Arno, all filled his waking, ay, and his dreamy 
thoughts, for he fell asleep at last and slept 
soundly. The day was just breaking ; a gray, 
half pinkish light faintly struggling through his 
Avindow, Avhen Gerald started up from his sleep. 
He had surely heard a sound. It Avas his name 


Avas called. Was it a human voice that uttered 
it ? or Avas the Avarning from a more solemn 
Avorld ? He bent doAvn his head to listen again ; 
and now he distinctly heard a Ioav creaking 
sound, and as distinctly suav that the door Avas 
slightly moved, and then the words “Gerald, 
Gerald,” Avhispered. He arose at once, and 
quickly recognizing Tina’s voice, dreAV nigh the 
door. 

“You have no time to lose, Gerald,” said 
she, rapidly. “ Pippo has taken the boat and 
is roAving across the lake ; and even by this half 
liglit I can see a figure standing on the rock at 
the foot of the mountain waiting for him, just 
where the pathway from St. Stephano comas 
doAvn to the water.” 

“Tlie Gobbo, I suppose,’’ said Gerald, half 
mockingly, as he shoAved the rapier he still held 
in his liand. “And if it be he, boy, there is 
no need to laugh,” said Tina, shuddering. 
“The dark Avaters of that lake there that cover 
some of his handiAvork, if they could speak, 
Avould tell you so !” 

“Then Avhat am I to do, Tina?” said he, 
throwing open the door. “You’d not have me 
meet them on the shore there and begin the 
attack, would you ?” 

If Gerald thrcAv out this suggestion as imprac- 
ticable, it Avas jet precisely the course he was 
longing himself to follow, and most eager that 
she should assent to. 

“The Blessed Virgin forbid it,” cried she, 
crossing herself. “There is but one road to 
take, and that is yonder,” and she pointed to a 
little rugged footpath that Avound its Avay OA^er 
the mountain, Avhich joined the frontier with 
Tuscany. 

“And am I in meet condition to traA-el, 
Tiija?” said he, jestingly, as he shoAved his 
ragged dress and pulled out the lining of his 
empty pockets. 

“There is Signor Gabriel’s cape,” said she; 
“it is almost as good as a cloak ; he left it Avith 
me, but I have no need of it, and there is the 
croAvn piece you gaA^e me yourself Avhen you 
Avere ill of the fever ; and I Avant it just as lit- 
tle.” 

The boy struggled hard to refuse both, but 
the sorrow Tina felt for the rejection at last 
overcame him, and, half in shame and half in 
pleasure — for the sense of exacting sacrifice is 
pleasure, deny it hoAV Ave may — he yielded, and 
accepted her gift. 

“ Oh, Tina, will there CA’-er come a day AAdien 
I can repay this kindness?” said he. “I al- 
most think there Avill.” 

“To be sure, Gerald, and you’ll not forget 
me even if there should not. You who Avere 
taught by the pious Frati Iioav to pray will sure- 
ly say a good Avord in your devotions for a poor 
girl like Tina.” 

The boy’s heart overfloAved Avith emotion at 
the trait of simple piety, and he kissed her tAvice 
Avith all the afl'ection of a fond brother. “ Good- 
by, Tina,” said be, sobbing; “I feel stronger 
and stouter in heart, now that I knew your kind 


40 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


v.'ishes are going along ■with me ; they are bet- 
ter to me, love, than a purse full of money. ” 

; “Do not take that sword, Gerald,” said she, 
trj’ing to take the weapon from him. “ If you 
enter a village with a rapier at your side, they’ll 
call you a brigand, and give you up to the cara- 
binieri.” 

“ I’ll not quit the good blade so long as I can 
wear it,” said he, resolutely ; and then added to 
himself, “I am nobly born, and have a right 
to a sword. ‘ Cinctus gladio,’ says the old 
statute of knighthood ; and if I be a Geraldine, 
I am noble !” 

And with these words the boy bade his last 
farewell, and issued from the house. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XII. nJ 

A FOREST SCENE. 

Once more did Gerald find himself alone and 
penniless upon the world. He was not, how- 
ever, as when first he issued forth, timid, de- 
pressed, and diffident. Short as had been the 
interval since that time, his mind had made a 
considerable progress. His various readings had 
taught him much ; and he had already learned 
that in that mutual assurance company we call 
Life men are ever more or less dependent on 
their fellows. “There must, then,” said he to 
himself, “be surely some craft or calling to 
which I can bring skill or aptitude, and some 
one or other will certainly accept of services that 
only require the very humblest recognition.” 
He walked for hours without seeing a living 
thing : the barren mountain was not even sheep- 
walk ; and, save the path Avorn by the track of 
smugglers, there tvas nothing to show that the 
foot of man had CA^er traA'ersed its dreary soli- 
tudes. At last he gained the summit of the 
ridge, and could see the long line of coast to the 
AvestAvard, jagged and indented Avith many a bay 
and promontory. There lay St. Stephano : he 
could recognize it by the light cloud of pale blue 
smoke that floated oA^er the valley, and marked 
Avhere the tOAvn stood ; and, beyond, he could 
catch the masts and yards of a fcAv small craft 
that Avere sheltering in the offing. Beyond these 
again stretched the Avide, blue sea, marked at 
the horizon by some far aAvay sails. The Avhole 
Avas wrapped in that solemn calm, so striking in 
the noon of an Italian summer’s day. Not a 
cloud moved ; not a leaf Avas stirring ; a faint 
foam line on the beach told that there the Avaves 
crept softly in, but, except this, all nature aa’us 
at rest. 

In the dead stillness of night our thoughts 
turn iuAvard, and Ave mingle memories Avith our 
present reveries ; but in the stillness of noon- 
da}^ Avhen great shadoAVS lie motionless on the 
hill-side, and all is hushed saAm the low murmur 
of the laden bee, our minds takCithe Avide range 
of the Avorld — visiting many lands — mingling 
Avith strange people. Action, rather than reflec- 
tion, engages us ; and avo combine, and change, 


and fashion the mighty elements before us as 
AA'e Avill. We people the plains Avith armed 
hosts; Ave fill the tOAvns Avith busy multitudes — 
gay processions throng the squares, and floating 
banners wave from steeple and tower ; over the 
blue sea proud fleets are seen to move, and thun- 
dering echoes send back their dread cannonad- 
ing : and through these sights and sounds we 
have our especial part — lending our sympathies 
here, bearing our Avarmest Avishes there. If Ave 
dream, it is of the real, the actual, and the true ; 
and thus dreaming, AA'e are but foreshadoAving 
to ourselves the incidents and accidents of life, 
and garnering up the resources AvhereAvith to 
meet them. Stored as Avas his mind Avith re- 
cent reading, Gerald’s fancy supplied him AA'ith 
innumerable incidents, in CA^cry one of Avhich he 
displayed the same heroic traits, the same apti- 
tude to meet emergency, and the same high- 
hearted courage, he had admired in others. 
Vain-gloriousness may be forgiA'en, Avhen it 
springs, as his did, out of thorough ignorance 
of the Avorld. It is, indeed, but the AA'arm out- 
pouring of a generous temperament, Avhere self- 
esteem predominates. The youth ardently de- 
sired that the good should prosper and the bad 
be punished ; his only mistake Avas, that he claim- 
ed the chief place in effecting both one and the 
other. 

Eagerly bent upon adA'enture — no matter 
Avhere, how, or Avith Avhom — he stood on the 
mountain’s peak, gazing at the scene beneath 
him. A Avaving tract of country, traversed by 
small streams, stretched aAvay tOAvard Tuscany, 
but Avhere the boundary lay betAveen the states 
he could not detect. No tOAvn or village could 
be descried ; and, so far as he could see, miles 
and miles of journey yet lay before him ere he 
could arrive at a human dAvelling. This AA'as 
indeed the less matter, since Tina had fastened 
up in his handkerchief sufficient food for the 
day ; and even Avere night to OA’ertake him, there 
Avas no great hardship in passing it beneath that 
starry sky. 

“Many there must be,” thought he, “cam- 
paigning at this very hour, in far aAvay lands, 
mayhap amid the sand deserts of the East, or 
crouching beneath the shelter of the drifted 
snoAvs in the North; and even here are troops 
of gipsies, who never knoAV Avhat means the com- 
fort of a roof OA'er them.” Just as he said these 
Avords to himself, his eyes chanced to rest upon 
a thin line of pale blue smoke that arose from 
a group of alders beside a stream in the A'alley. 
Faint and thin at first, it gradually grcAv darker 
and fuller, till it rose into the clear air, and Avas 
Avafted sloAvly along tOAvard the sea. 

“Just as if I had conjured them up,” cried 
Gerald, “ there are the gipsies ; and if there be 
a Strega in the company, she shall have this 
croAvn for telling me my fortune ! What mar- 
A'els Avill she not invent for this broad piece — 
Avhat dragons shall I not slay — Avhat princesses 
not marry ; not but in reality they do posses* 
some Avondrous insight into the future ! Sig- 
nor Gabriel sneered at it, as he sneered at- ev- 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


41 


cry thing ; but there’s no denying they read des- 
tiny, as the sailor reads the coming storm in 
signs unseen by otliers. There is something 
fine, too, ill their clanship: how, poor and 
houseless, despised as they are, they cling to- 
gether, hoarding up their ancient rites and tra- 
ditions — their only wealth — and wandering 
through the world, pilgrims of centuries old.” 
As he descended the mountain path, he (jontiii- 
ued thus to exalt the gipsies in his estimation ; 
and with that unfailing resource in similar cases, 
that what he was unable to praise he at least 
found picturesque. The path led through a 
wood of stunted chestnut-trees, on issuing from 
whose shade he could no longer detect the spot 
he was in search of; the fire had gone out, and 
the smoke ceased to linger over the place. 

“Doubtless, the encampment has broken up; 
they are trudging along toward the coast, where 
the villages lie,” thought he, “ and I may come 
up with tliem to-morrow or next day ;” and he 
stepped out briskly on his way. The day was 
intensely hot, and Gerald would gladly have 
availed himself of any shade, to lie down and 
enjoy the “ siesta” hours in true Italian fashion. 
The only spot, however, he could procure like- 
ly to offer such shelter was a little copse of 
olives, at a bend of the riv'er, about a mile away. 
A solitary rock, with a few ruined walls upon 
it, rose above the trees, and marked tlie j)lace as 
one once inhabited. Following the winding of 
the stream, he at length drew nigh, and quickly 
noticed that the grass was greener and deeper, 
with here and there a daffodil or a wild flower, 
signs of a soil which, in some past time, had been 
cared for and cultivated. The river, too, as it 
swept around the base of the rock, deepened into 
a clear, calm pool, the very sight of which was 
intensely grateful and refreshing. As the youth 
stood in admiring contemplation of this fair bath, 
and inwardly vowing to himself the luxury of 
a plunge into it, a low rustling noise startled 
him, and a sound like the sharp stamp of a beast’s 
foot. Pie quickly turned, and, tracing the noise, 
saw a very diminutive ass, who, tethered to an 
olive-tree, was busily munching a meal of this- 
tles, and as busily stamping off the stray forest 
flies that settled on him. Two panniers, cov- 
ered over with some tarnished scarlet cloth, and 
a drum of considerable size and very gaudy col- 
oring lay on the grass, with three or four paint- 
ed poles, a roll of carpet, and a bright brass 
basin, such as conjurors use for their trade. 
There was also a curiously-shaped box, paint- 
ed in checkers, doubtless some mysteriously gift- 
ed “ property.” Curious to discover the own- 
ers of these interesting relics, Gerald advanced 
into the copse, when his quick hearing w'as ar- 
rested by the long-drawn breathings of several 
people fast asleep — so, at least, they seemed, by 
the full-toned chorus of their snorings ; though 
the next moment show’ed him that they consist- 
ed of but three persons, an old, stunted, and 
very emaciated man ; an equally old woman, 
immensely fat, and misshapen, to which her 
taw’dry finery gave something indescribably lu- 


dicrous in effect ; and a young girl, whose face 
was buried in the bend of her arms, but whose 
form, as she lay in the graceful abandonment 
of sleep, was finely and beautifully proportioned. 
A coarse dress of brown stuff was her only cov- 
ering, leaving her arms bare, while her legs, but 
for the sandals of some tawdry tinsel, were per- 
fectly naked to the knees, brown as the skin of 
an Indian, yet in shape and symmetry they might 
have vied with the most faultless statue of the 
antique — indeed, to a sleeping nyn ph in the 
gallery of the Altieri Palace was (jcrald now 
•comparing her, as he stood gazing on her. Tluj 
richly-floating hair, which, as a protection 
against the zanzari, she had let fall over her 
neck and shoulders, only partially defended her, 
and so she stiiTCd at times, each motion display- 
ing some new charm, some fresh grace of form. 
At last, perhaps startled by a thought of her 
dreams, she gave a sudden cry, and sprang up 
to a sitting posture — her eyes -widely staring and 
her half-opened lips, turbed to whc're Gerald 
stood. As for him, the amazement that seized 
him overcame him — for she was no other than 
the “tarantella” dancer of the Piazza di Spag- 
na — the Marietta who had so fascinated him on 
the night he left the convent. 

“Babbo! Babbo!” screamed she, in tc'’*or, 
as she caught sight of the naked rapier at the 
youth’s side ; and in a moment both the old 
man and the w'oman were on their legs. 

“We are poor — miserably poor. Signore!” 
cried the old man, piteously; “mere ‘vaga- 
bonds,’ and no more.” 

“ We have not a Bajbcclo among us. Signore 
mio,” blubbered out the old woman. 

An honest burst of laughter from Gerald, far 
more reassuring than words, soon satisfied them 
that their fears were needless. 

“Who are you, then?” cried the girl, as she 
darted her piercing black eyes toward him ; 
“and why are you here ?” 

“The world is wide, and open to all of us, 
Cara mia,” said the youth, good-humoredly. 
“Don’t be angry with me because I’m not a 
brigand.” 

“ He says truly,” said the old man. 

“ Sangue dei Santi, but you have given mo 
a hearty fright, boy, whatever brought you here !” 
said the fat old woman, as she wiped the hot 
drops from her steaming face. 

There is some marvelous freemasonry in 
poverty — some subtle sympathy links poor men 
together — for scarcely had Gerald told that Iiq 
was destitute and penniless as themselves, than 
these poor outcasts bade him a frank welcome 
among them, and invited him to a share of their 
little scanty supper. 

“ I’ll warrant me that you have drawn a low 
number in the conscription, boy ; and that’s the 
reason you have fled from home,” said the old 
woman ; and Gerald laughed good-humoredly, 
as though accepting the suggestion as a happy 
guess ; nor was he sorry to bo s[)arcd the neces- 
sity of recounting his story. 

“But why not be a soldier?” broke in Marietta. 


42 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“Because it’s a dog’s life,” retorted the hag, 
savagely. 

“1 don't think so,” said Gerald. “When I 
saw the noble guard of his Holiness t’other day 
come ])rancing into the Piazza del Popolo, I 
longed to be one of tliem. They were all glit- 
tering with gold and polished steel, and their 
liorses bounded and caracoled as if impatient 
for a charge.” 


well-favored ones couldn’t attempt. He was a 
sore loss to us,” said he, with a deep sigh. 

“ There wasn’t a beast of the field, nor a bird 
that flies he couldn’t imitate,” broke in Mari- 
etta ; “and with some wondrous cunning, too, 
he could blend the sounds together, and you’d 
hear the cattle lowing and the rooks cawing all 
at the same time.” 

“ The owl was good ; that was his best,” said 


“ Ah !” sighed tbe old man, drearily, “there’s 
only one ha])py road in this life.” 

“ And what may that be, Babbo? ’ said Ger- 
Hd, addressing him by the familiar title the 
girl had given him. 

“A Prate’s boy, a Prate’s. I don’t care 
whether he be a Dominican or an Ignorantine. 
Though, myself, I like the Ignorantines. Theirs 
is truly a blessed existence : no wants — no cares 
• — no thoughts for the morrow ! I never watch- 
ed one of them stepping along, with firm foot, 
and sack on his arm, that I didn’t say to my- 
self, ‘ There’s freedom — there’s light-hearted- 
ness.’” 

“ I should have called your ow n a pleasanter 
life.” 

“ Mine,” groaned he. 

“Ay, Babbo, and so is it,” burst in the girl, 
in r n excited tone. “ Show me the Prate has 
such a time as we have! Whenever the Friar 
comes, men shufile away to escape giving him 
their ‘quattrini.’ They know well there’s no 
such sturdy beggar as he who asks no alms, but 
siiows you the mouth of his long empty sack ; 
but where we appear, the crowds gather, moth- 
ers snatch up their babies and hurry out to 
greet ns; hard worked men cease their toil; 
children desert their games; all press round 
eagerly at the first roll of Gaetana’s drum, and 
of i)oor Chico’s fife, when he was with us,” add- 
ed she, cli'opping her head, while a heavy tear 
rolled down her swarthy cheek. 

“ Maladizione a Chico,” screamed out the 
old man, lifting up both his clenched hands in 
passion. 

“ What was it he did?” asked Gerald of the 
old man. 

“He fancied himself a patriot, boy, and he 
stabbed a spy of the police at the St. Lucia one 
evening; and they have him now at the gal- 
leys, and they’ll keep him there for life.” 

“Ah! if you saw him on the two poles,” 
cried the girl, “only strapped so, over his in- 
step, and he could spring from here to the tree 
yonder ; and then he’d unfasten one, and hold- 
ing it on his forehead, balance Babbo’s basin on 
the top, all the while playing the tambourine ! 
.And who could piny it like him? It was a 
drum with cymbals in his hands.” 

“Was he handsome, too?” asked Gerald, 
with a half sly glance toward her; but she only 
hung her head in silence. 

“ He handsome,” cried the old woman, catch- 
ing at the words. “Brntto! brutto ! he had a 
hare lip, with a dog's jaw!” 

“No, truly,” muttered Babbo; “he w'as not 
handsome, though he could do many a thing 


Babbo. 

“ Oh, was it not fine; the wild shriek of the 
owl, Avhile the tide was breaking on the shore, 
and the waves came in plash., plash, in the still 
night ?” 

“ May his toil be hard, and his chains 
heavy,” exclaimed the hag; “we have had 
nothing but misery and distress since the day 
he was taken.” 

“Poor fellow,” said Gerald, “his lot is hard- 
er still.” The girl’s dark eyes turned fully upon 
him, with a look of grateful meaning, that well 
repaid his compassionate speech. 

“ So may it be,” chimed in the hag'; “ and so 
with all who ill-treat those whose bread they’ve 
eaten ;” and she turned a glance of fiery anger 
on the girl. “What art doing there, old fool!” 
cried she, to the Babbo, who, having turned his 
back to the company, was telling over his beads 
busily. He made no reply, and she ^vent on, 
“That’s all he’s good for, now. There was a 
time I'.e could sing Punch’s carnival from be- 
ginning to end, keep four dancing on the stage, 
and two talking out of windows ; but now he’s 
ever at the litanies; he’d rather talk to you 
about St. Francis than of the Tombola, ho 
would !” 

As the old hag, wdth bitter words and savage 
energy, inveighed against her old associate, 
Gerald had sense to mark, that small as the 
company was, it yet consisted of ingredients 
that bore little resemblance, and Avere attached 
by the slenderest sympathies to each other. He 
Avas young and inexperienced enough in life to 
imagine that they Avho amuse the Avorld by their 
gifts, AvhateA^er they be, carry Avith them to their 
homes the pleasant qualities Avhich delight the 
audiences. He fancied that, through all their 
poverty, the light-hearted gayety that marked 
them in public Avould abide Avith them AA'hen 
alone, and that the quips and jests they bandied 
Avere but tbe outpourings of a ready wit ahvays 
in exercise. If we smile at this simplicity, let 
us remember hoAv many, more A'ersed in the 
Avorld and its AAmys than poor Gerald, liaA'O 
incurred a very similar error! Ay, A'alued 
reader, can you and I say of ourselves that Ave 
haA’e never tasted of this illusion ! What heroes 
have Ave not made of those Avhose A'erses have 
charmed or Avhose creations have thrilled us ! 
have Ave not fancied a thousand fascinations in 
their manner, their voice, and their bearing? 
have Ave not envied those admitted to their daily 
intercourse — the associates of their firesides? 
and having done all these, have Ave not aAvak- 
ened to some A'ery rude shocks? Have Ave not 
knoAvn the dreary discouragement of finding 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


43 


that there is a dualism in genius ; and that he 
whose written words have glowed like a tire 
within you, may be a wearisome companion, 
and a fourth-rate converser? These are very 
ungracious rcHections, and let us leave them. 

I have said ihat Gerald was surprised to see 
them so difterent in their private from ‘their 
public aspect. Nor was this the only lesson in 
world-craft that he was to learn at their hands : > 
he was also to perceive, what strange and in- 
congruous natures the cares of life associate to- i 
gether. The Habbo had been a servitor of a | 
convent in the Abbruzzi, and, dismissed for some 
misdemeanor, had wandered about the world 
in vagabondage till he became a conjuror ; some 
talent or long-neglected gift of sleight-of-hand 
coming to the rescue of his fortune ! Tiie wo- 
man Donna Gaetana, had passed through all 
the stages of “ Street Ballet,” from the prodigy 
of six years old, with a wreath of violets on her 
brow, to the besotted old beldame, whose spe- 
icalty was the drum. As for Marietta, where 
she came from, of what j)arentagc, or even of 
what land, I know not. The Babbo called her 
his niece — his grandchild — his “figliuola” at 
times, but she was none of these. In the way- 
ward turns of their fortune these street perform- 
ers are Avont to join occasionally together in the 
larger capitals, that by iheir number they may 
attract more faA’orable audiences ; and so, when 
Gerald first saw them at Rome, tliey were united 
with some l^iflferari from Sicily; but the same 
destiny that decides more pretentious coalitions 
had separated theirs ; and the three avere now 
trudging northward, in some vague hope that 
the land of laromise lay in that direction. It is 
needless to say how Gerald felt attracted by the 
strange adventurous life of which they spoke. 
The Babbo mingling his old convent traditions, 
his scraps of monkish Latin, his little fragments 
of a pious training, tvith the descriptions of his 
subtle craft, was a study the youth delighted in, 
while from his own early teaching, it was also 
a character he could thoroughly appreciate. 
Donna Gaetana, indeed, offered little in the 
way of interest, but did not Marietta alone com- 
pensate for more than this? The wild and 
fearless grace of this young girl, daring to the 
very verge of shamelessness, and yet with a 
strange instinctive sense of womanly delicacy 
about her, that lifted her, in her rags and her 
raggedness, to a sphere Avhere deference was 
her due ; her matchless symmetry, her easy mo- 
tion, a mingled expression of energy and lan- 
guoi' about her, all met happily in one, Avho but 
needed culture to have become a great artist. 
She possessed, besides, a voice of exquisite 
richness, one of those deep-toned organs whose 
thrilling expression seems to attain at once the 
highest triunlph of musical art in the power of 
exciting the sensibilities; such was that poor 
neglected child, as she hovered over the brink 
where vice, and Avretchedness, and crime, run 
deep and fast beloAv ! 

When the meal Avas over, and the little ves- 
sels used in preparing it w'crc all duly Avashed 


and packed, old Gaetana lighted her pipe, and 
once in full puff' proceeded to drag from a por- 
tentous looking bag a mass of strange rags, 
dirty and particolored, the slashed slecA’CS and 
spangled skirts j)roclaiming them as “proper- 
ties.” 

“ Clap that velvet cap on thy head, boy, and 
let’s see Avhat thou lookest like,” cried she, 
handing Gerald a veh'et hat, looped up in front, 
and ornamented Avith an ostrich feather. 

“What for?” cried he, rudely; “I am no 
mountebank.” And then, as he caught Mari- 
etta’s eyes, a deep blush burned all OA^cr his 
face, and he said, in a voice of shame, “To be 
sure ! Any thing you like. I’ll Avear this too,” 
and he snatched up a taAvdry mantle and thrcAv 
it over his shoulders. 

“Come e bellino!” said Marietta, as she 
clasped her hands across her bosom, and gazed 
on him in a sort of rapture. “He’s like Faolo 
in the Francesca,” muttered she. 

“ He’ll never be Chico,” growled out the 
hag. “ Birbante that he Avas, Avho’ll ever jump 
through nine hooi'S Avith a lighted taper in his 
hand ? Oh, Assassino ! it Avon’t serve you 
noAv !” 

“Do you knoAv Paolo’s s])eech ?” Avhispered 
Marietta. 

“No,” said he, blushing, half qngry, ‘half 
ashamed. 

“Then I’ll teach it to you.” 

“Thou shouldst have been an acolite at San 
Giovanni di Laterano Avhen the Po])e says the 
hi_|h mass, boy,” cried Babbo, enthusiastically. 
“Thy figure and face would Avell become the 
beauteous spectacle.” 

“Does not that suit him?” cried the' girl, 
as she rejfiaced the hat by a round cap, such as 
pages Avear, Avith a single eagle’s feather. “Does . 
not that become him?” 

“Who cares for looks?” muttered the hag. 
“Chico Avas ugly enough to bring bad luck; 
and Avhen shall Ave see his like again?” 

“Who knoAvs! Avho knoAvs?” said Babbo, 
sloAvly. “This lad may, if he join us, hav'e 
many a good gift Ave suspect not. Canst sing?” 

“Yes; at least the Litanies.” 

“Ah, bravo, GioA’ane!” cried the old man. 
“Thon’lt bring a blessing upon us.” 

“Canst play the fife, the tambourine, the 
flute?” asked Gaetana. 

■ “None of them.” 

“Thou canst recite. I’m sure,” said Marietta. 
“Thou knoAvest Tasso and Petrarch, surely, and 
Guarini ?” 

“ Yes ; and Dante by heart, if that be of any 
service to me,” said Gerald. 

“ Ah ! I knoAV nothing of him,” said she, sor- 
roAvfully ; “ but I could repeat the Orlando from 
beginning to end.” 

“IIoAV art thou on the stilts or the slack- 
rope ?” asked the old Avoman ; “ for these other 
things never gaA’^e bread to any one.” 

“ If I must depend upon the slaek-rope, then,” 
said Gerald, good-humoredly, “I run a good 
chance of going supperless to bed.” 


44 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“How they neglect them when they’re 
young, and their bones soft and pliant !” said 
Gaetana, sternly. “What are parents about 
now-a-days I can’t imagine. I used to crouch 
into a flower-pot when I was five years old ; 
ay, and spring out of it too when the Fairy 
Queen touched the flower !” 

Gerald could with great difficulty restrain the 
burst of laughter this anecd.jte of her early life 
provoked. 

“Oh, come with us; stay with us,” whisper- 
ed Marietta in his ear. 

“If thou hast been taught the offices, boy,” 
said Babbo, “thou deservest an honester life 
than ours. Leave us, then ; go thy ways, and 
walk in better company.” 

“ Corpo del diavolo !” screamed out the hag. 
“ It’s always so with him. He has nothing but 
hard words for the trade he lives by.” 

“ Stay with us; stay wdth us,” wdiispered the 
girl, more faintly. 

“ Thou might have a worse offer, lad ; for who 
can tell what’s in thee. I warrant me, at thy 
age thou’lt never be great at jumping tricks.” 

“Wilt stay?” said Marietta, as her eyes 
swam in tears. 

“I will,” said Gerald, with a glance that 
made her cheek crimson. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

A “contract.” 

I AM not certain that a great “ Impressario” 
of Paris or London would have deemed the doc- 
ument which bound Gerald to his new master a 
very formal instrument. But there was a doc- 
ument. It was Avritten on a fly-leaf of old Bab- 
bo’s Breviary, and set forth duly that for cer- 
tain services to be afteinvard detailed, “ un certo 
Gherardi” — so was he called — was to eat, and 
drink, and be clothed ; always providing that 
there Avas meat, and drink, and Avearables to 
giA^e him; Avith certain benefices — small con- 
tingent remainders — to accrue Avhen times Avere 
prosperous and patrons generous, and all this 
for tlie term of a twelvemonth. Donna Gaetana 
stoutly fought for fiA^e years, then three, and 
then two : but she Avas beaten in all her amend- 
ments, though she argued her case ably. She 
shoAved, Avith a force derived from great experi- 
ence, that theirs was a profession Avherein there 
AA'as much to learn; that the initial stages de- 
A’eloped very fcAv of those gifts which won pop- 
ular applause ; that, consequently, the neophyte 
Avas any thing but a profitable colleague ; and 
it Avas only Avhen his education was perfected 
that he could be expected to repay the cost of 
his early instruction. “At the end of a year,” 
to borroAv her OAvn forcible language, “he’ll 
haA^e smashed a dozen basins and broken tAventy 
poles, and he’ll just be as stiff in the back as 
you see him to-day.” 

“He’ll haA'e had enough of a Aveary life ere 
that,” muttered the Babbo, Avhose sigh .seemed 


delivered Avith an especial reference to his com- 
panion. 

“What haA'e you to complain of, I’d like to 
know ?” asked she, fiercely ; “ you that sit there 
all day like a prince on a throne, never so much 
as giving a blast of a horn or a beat on the drum ; 
but pulling a fcAV cords for your puppets, and 
making them patter about the stage Avhile 3'ou 
tell over the self-same story I heard forty years 
ago. Ah, if it was Pierno ! that Avas something 
indeed to hear ! He came out wdth something 
ncAV every evening — droll felloAV that he AvaS' — 
and could make the people laugh till the Piazza 
rung again.” 

“Well, Avcll,” sighed Babbo, “his drollery has 
cost him something. He cut a jest upon the 
Cardinal Balfi, and they sent him to Molo di 
Gaeta, to AA'ork at the galleys. My polcinello 
may be stupid, but Avill not make me finish my 
days in chains.” 

Whether IMarietta feared the effect these do- 
mestic discussions might produce upon Gerald, 
newly come as he Avas among them, or that she 
desired to talk Avith him more at her ease, she 
strolled arvay into the AA'ood, giving one linger- 
ing glance as she left the place to bid him fol- 
loAV. The youth Avas not loth» to accept the 
hint, and soon overtook her. 

“And so,” said she, taking his hand betAveen 
both her OAvn, “you will stay.” 

“I haA'e promised it,” replied Gerald. 

“All for me, all forme, as the little song says..” 

“I never heard it. Will you sing it, IMari- 
etta?” said he, placing his arm around her 
Avaist. 

“I’ll go and fetch my guitar, then,” said she, 
and bounding aAvay, Avas soon once more beside 
him, sAveeping her fingers OA'er the cords as she 
came. 

“It’s nothing of a song, either Avords or 
music ; but I picked it up at Capri, and it re- 
minds me of that SAveet spot. So saying, ancl 
after a little prelude, she sang the canzonette, 
of AAhich the folloAving words are a rude ver- 
sion : 

“ I knoAV a bark on a moonlit sea, 

Pescator! Pescator! 

There’s one in that bark athinking of me, 

Oh, Pescator! 

And while his light boat steals along, 

Pescator! Pescator! 

lie murmurs my name in his evening song, 

Oh, Pescator ! 

He prays the Madonna above my head, 

Pescator! Pescator! 

To bring sweet dreams around my bed. 

Oh, Pescator ! 

And when the morning breaks on shore. 

I’ll kneel and pray for my Pescator, 

Who ventures alone on the stormy sea, 

All for me ! all for me !” 

Simple as Avere the words, the Avild beauty of 
the little air thrilled through Gerald’s heart, and 
twice did he make her repeat it. 

“ Oh, if you like barcaroles,” said she, “I’ll 
sing you hundreds of them, and teach you, be- 
sides, to sing them Avith me. We shall be so 
happy, Gherardi mio, living thus together.” 

“And not regret Chico?” said Gerald, 
gravely. 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


45 


“ Cliico was very clever, but he was cruel. 
He would beat me when 1 would not learn 
quickly ; and my life was very sad when he 
was witli us. See,” said she, drawing down 
her sleeve from her shoulder, “ these stripes 
were of liis giving.” 

“Briccone,” muttered Gerald, “if I had him 
here.” 

“ Ah, he Avas so treacherous ! He’d have 
stabbed you at the altar foot rather than let a 
A'cngear.ce escape him. He was a Corsican.” 

“And are they so treacherous always?” 

“ Are they ?” cried she. “ Ter Dio, I believe 
they are.” 

“Well, let’s talk of him no more. I only 
mentioned his name because 1 feared you loved 
him, Marietta.” 

“And if I had ?” asked she, Avith a half mali- 
cious drollery in her dark eyes. 

“Then I’d haAm hated him all the more; 
hated you, perhaps, too.” 

“Poverino!” said she, Avith a sigli Avhich 
ended in a laugh. 

And noAV they Aval ked along, side by side, 
Avhile she told Gerald all about her life, her 
companions, their humors, their habits, and their 
Avays. She liked Babbo. He Avas kind-hearted 
and affectionate ; but Donna Gaetana AAms all 
that AA^as cruel and unfeeling. Chico, indeed, 
had always resisted her tyranny, and she coun- 
seled Gerald to do the same. “As for me,” 
.added she, sorroAvfully, “I am but a girl, and 
must bear Avith her.” 

“ But I’ll stand by you. Marietta,” cried Ger- 
ald, boldly. “We’ll see if the Avorld Avon’t go 
better Avith each of us as Ave meet it thus ;” and 
he dreAV her arm around his, Avhile he clasped 
her Avaist Avith his OAvn. 

And Avhat a happy hour Avas that as thus she 
rambled along under the leafy shade, no sound 
I)ut the Avild Avood-pigeon’s cry to break the si- 
lence ; for often they AA'ere silent Avith thoughts 
deeper than Avords could render. She, full of 
that future AA'hero Gerald Avas to be the com- 
panion of all her games ; he, too, ranging in 
fancy over adA'entures Avherein, as her protector 
and defender, he confronted perils unceasingly. 
Then he bethought him hoAV strangely destiny 
should have thus brought them together, two 
forsaken, friendless creatures as they Avere. 

Falling in loA’e, as it is called, has its A'ariety 
of aspects. One falls in love at eighteen, at 
eight-and-twenty, and at eight-and-forty Avith 
A'ery different reasons for the process. Silky 
hair, and long eye-lashes, and pearly teeth get 
jostled as Ave go on through life, Avith thoughts 
of good connections and the three per cents., 
and a strange compromise is effected between 
inclination and self-interest. To know, Iioav- 
CA’er, the true ecstasy of the passion, to feel it in 
r.ll its impulsive force, and in the full strength 
of its irresponsibility, be very young and very 
poor — young enough to doubt of nothing, not 
CAmn yourself ; poor enough to despise riches 
most heartily. 

Gerald Avas both of these. His mind, charged 


Avith deep stores of sentiment, Ava«! eagerly seek- 
ing Avhere to iuAmst its wealth. Tiie tender pa- 
thos of St. Pierre, the more dangerous prompt- 
ings of Rousseau, Avere in his heart, and ho 
yearned for one to Avhom he could speak of the 
feelings that struggled AA'ithin him. As for 
Marietta, to listen to him Avas ecstasy. The 
gloAving language of poetry — its brilliant image- 
ry — its melting softness — came upon her like 
refreshing rain upon some arid soil, scorched 
and sun-stricken : her spirit, half crushed be- 
neath daily hardships, rose at once to the magic 
touch of ennobling sentiment. Oh ! Avhat a neAV 
Avorld Avas that Avhich now opened before them : 
hoAv beautiful — hoAV bright — hoAv full of tender- 
ness — hoAv rich in generous emotions. 

“ Only think,” said she, looking into his eyes, 
“but this very morning avc bad not knoAvn each 
other, and now Ave are bound together forever 
and ever. Is it not so, Ghcrardi mio ?” 

“So swear I!” cried Gerald, as he pressed 
her to his heart, and then, in the full current of 
his AA'arm eloquence, he poured forth a hundred 
schemes for their future life. They Avould seek 
out some sweet spot of earth, far aAvay and se- 
cluded, like that Avherein they rambled then, 
only more beautiful in verdure, and more pic- 
turesque, and build themselves a hut ; there 
they Avould live together a life of blessedness. 
They talked over the theme for hours unAvea- 
riedly, each interrupting the other Avith somo 
neAV thought of this or that, some ffesh sugges- 
tion for a life of ecstasy. 

It Avas only by earnest persuasion she could 
turn him from at once putting the project into 
execution. “ Why not noAV ?” cried he. “Here 
Ave are free, beyond the Avood ; you cross a lit- 
tle stream, and Ave arc in Tuscany. I saAV the 
frontier from the mountain top this morning.” 

“And then,” said the girl, “hoAV are aa^c to 
live? We shall neither hav'e the Babbo nor 
Donna Gaetana ; I can not dance Avithout her 
music, nor have you leaimed any thing as yet to 
do. Mio Gherardi, aa’C must Avait and study 
hal'd; you must learn to be Paolo, and to de- 
claim ‘ Antonio,’ too. I’ll teach you these ; be- 
sides, the Babbo has a volume full of things 
Avould suit you. Our songs, too, avc ha\'C not 
practiced them together; and in the tOAvns 
Avhcrc Ave are going, the public, they say, ave 
harder to please than in these mountain vil- 
lages. And then she pictured forth a life of 
artistic triumph — success dear to her humble 
heart, the A'ery memory of Avhich brought tears 
of joy to her eyes. These she Avas longing to 
display before him, and to make him share in. 
Thus talking, they returned to the encampment, 
Avhere, as the heat Avas passed, the Babbo aa'os 
now preparing to set out on his journey. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE ACCIDENTS OF ^‘ARTIST” LIFE. 

An autumnal night, in all its melloAv softness, 
Avas just closing in upon the Lungo L’Arno of 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


4C 

Florence. Toward tlie ea.st and south the grace- 
ful outlines of San Miniato, with its tall cy- 
presses, might be seen against tlie sky, while all 
the city, which lay between, was wrapped in 
deepest shadow. It was the season of the Yille- 
giatura, when the great nobles are leading coun- 
try lives ; still the various bridges, and the quays 
at either side of the river, were densely crowded 
with peo[)le. The denizens most part of close 
and narrow streets, came forth to catch the faint 
breath of air that floated along the Arno. Seat- 
ed on benches and chairs, or gathered in little 
knots and groups, the citizens seemed to enjoy 
this hour “ al fresco,” with a zest only known to 
those who have basked in the still and heated 
atmosjdiere of a southern climate. Truly, no 
splendid salon, in all the gorgeous sjdendor of 
its gildings, ever presented a spot so luxurious 
as that river-side, Avhile the fresh breeze came 
borne along the water’s track from the snow- 
clad heights of Vallambrosa, gathering perfume 
as it came. No loud voices, no boisterous mirth, 
disturbed tlie delicious calm of the enjoyment, 
but a low murmur of human sounds, attuned as 
it were to the gentle ripple of the jiassing stream, 
and here and there a light and joyous laugh, 
were only heard. At the Font St. Trinita, and 
immediately below it, the crowd was densest, 
attracted, not impossibly, by the lights and 
movement that went on in a great palace close 
by, the only one of all those on the Arno that 
showed signs of habitation. Of the others the 
owners were absent ; but here, through the open 
windows, might be seen figures passing and re- 
passing, and at times, the sounds of music heard 
from within. 'With that strange sympathy — for 
it is not all curiosity — that attracts people to 
watch the concourse of some gay company — the 
ebb and flow of intercourse — the crowd gazed 
eagerly up at the windows, commenting on this 
or that jiersonage, as they passed, and discussing 
together what they fancied might form the charm 
of such society. 

“Well,” sighed out a dark-eyed girl to her 
companion, “were I a Queen, I’d not loiter 
liere in the hot autumn, but have my villa on 
the breezy slopes of Fiezole, and breathe the cool 
air of the A})ennines.” 

“But she is no queen, to begin with,” broke 
in a youth; “a princess, if you will, and even 
that title some would deny her.” 

“ IIow can they do so ?” cried an old man of 
stern aspect. “She is of royal descent, allied 
with royalty by marriage ; and now, per Dio, 
many would say, prouder in her fall than in all 
her greatness.” 

“ He means in being the love of that great 
poet,” whispered the youth to the girl. “You 
know,” he added, “that he who lives there wrote 
Fili])po, and Orcste, and Mirra.” 

“There she is; that is the Diichessa now 
standing on the balcony,” broke in the old man. 
But except the long tresses of blonde hair that 
hung freely, as she bent forward, nothing could 
bo descried of her. 

The faint tinkling of a guitar in the street 


beneath, and the motion of the crowd, showed 
that some sort of street performance had attract- 
ed attention ; and soon the balcony of the pal- 
ace was thronged w'ith the gay company, not 
sorry, as it seemed, to have this pretext for 
loitering in the free night air. To the brief 
])relude of the guitar a roll of the drum succeed- 
ed, and then, when silence had been obtained, 
might be heard the voice of an old, infirm man, 
announcing a programme of the entertainment. 
First of all — and by “ torch-light, if the respect- 
able public would vouchsafe the expense” — The 
adventures of Don Callemacho among the Moors 
of Barbary — his capture, imj)risonment, and es- 
cape — his rescue of the Princess of Cordova, 
Avith their shipwreck afterward on the island of 
Ithica: the whole illustrated with panoramic 
scenery, accompanied by music, and expressed 
by appropriate dialogue and dancing. The dec- 
lamation to be delivered by a youth of consum- 
mate genius — the action to be enunciated by a 
Signorina of esteemed merit. “I do not draw 
attention to myself, nor to the gifts of that ex- 
cellent lady who presides OA’cr the drum,” con- 
tinued he. “Enough that Naples has seen, 
Venice praised, Rome applauded, us. We liaA'C 
gathered laurels at Milan ; wreathed flowers 
have fallen on us at Mantua ; our pleasant jests 
haA'e awoke laughter in the Avild valleys of 
Calabria; our pathos has dimmed many an eye 
in the gorgeous halls of Genoa; princes and 
r'^'utadini alike have shared in the enjoyment of 
oi.r talents : and so, Avith your favor, may each 
of you, ‘ Gentilissimi Signori.’” 

"While a murmur of approbation Avent through 
the croAvd at this promising announcement, the 
old man depositing his properties on the ground, 
proceedetl to form a ciicle of the bystanders ad- 
dressing them for the pi.rpose in terms of cour- 
tesy and compliment. They Av'ere great and 
gallant Signori, or most beautiful Donne, Glori- 
ous Patrons of the Arts, Fair favorers of the 
IMuses. The native delicacy of the language 
lending itself to these hyiierln les Avithout the 
slightest semblance of a mockery. Indeed, the 
hearers deemed the terms in Avhich he accosted 
them only their due, Avilling as they Avere on 
their part to call him and his company by titles 
as high-sounding. 'Whether, hoAA^ever, the “in- 
telligent I’ublic” Avas not as affluent as it Av.es 
gifted, or that, to apply the ancient adage, “Le 
jeu ne valait pas la chandelle ;” but so Avas it, 
that the old man had tAvice made the tour of 
the circle, Avithout obtaining a single quatrino. 

“At Bologna, O Signori, they deemed this 
representation Avorthy of Avax-light. We gave 
it in , the Piazza before two thousand spectators, 
Avho if less great or beautiful than those Ave see 
here, Avere yet bountiful in their generosity! 
Sound the drum. Comare mia,” said he, ad- 
dressing the old woman, “and let the spirit-rous- 
ing roll inspire heroic longings. A blast of the 
tromb, figlio mio, Avill set these noble hearts 
high-beating for a tale of chivalry.” The deaf- 
ening clamor of drum and trumpet resounded 
thiU':Lgh the air, and came back in many an 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


47 


echo, from across the Arno; hat, alas! they 
awoke no resjjonsive syinpathies in the autlience, 
who probably having deemed that the spectacle 
might be partly gratuitous, showed already signs 
of thinning away. “Are you going, Illustris- 
simi Signori,” cried he, more energetically, “go- 
ing without one view, one passing glance at the 
castle on the Guadalquiver, with its court of 
fountains, all playing and splashing like real 
water ; going without a look at the higli-))ooped 
galleon, as she sailed forth at morn, Avith the 
banner of the house of Calleniacho waving from 
the mast, Avhile the signal guns are firing a sa- 
lute, the high cliffs of Carthagena reverberating 
with the sound ?” A loud “bom” from the drum 
gave testimony to the life-like reality of the de- 
scription. “ Going,” screamed he, more eager- 
ly still, “without witnessing the palace of the 
^Moorish king, lit up at night — ten thousand lan- 
terns glittering along its marble terraces, Avhile 
strains of soft music fill the air ? A gentle mel- 
ody, figlio mio,” whispered he to the boy be- 
side him. 

“Let them go, in the devil’s name,” broke 
out the old woman, whose harsh accents at once 
pi'oclaimed our old acquaintance Donna Gae- 
tana. 

“What says she — what says the Donna?” 
cried three or four of the crowd in a breath. 

“She says that we’ll come back in the day- 
light, Signori,” broke in the old man, in terror, 
“and sing our native songs of Calabria, and 
show our native dances. We know well, oh, 
gentle Public, that poor ignorant creatures like 
ourselves are but too rash to appear before you, 
great Florentines, citizens of Michel Angelo, 
dwellers with Benvenuto, companions of Boc- 
caccio !” 

“And not a quatrino among ye,” yelled out 
the old hag, Avith a laugh of scorn. 

A Avild cry of anger burst from the croAvd, 
Avho breaking the circle, noAV rushed in upon the 
strollers. 

In A'ain the Babbo, protested, explained, 
begged, and entreated. He declared the com- 
pany to be the highest, the greatest, the richest, 
he had ever addressed ; himself and his com- 
panions the vilest and least worthy of humanity. 
He asseverated in frantic tones his belief, that 
from the hour Avhen he should lose their fqvor 
no fortune Avould ev'er attend on him, either in 
this Avorld or the next. 

But of what avail Avas it that he employed ev- 
ery eloquence at his command, Avhile the Donna, 
Avith Avords of insult, and gestures more offens- 
iA’e still, reviled the “base rabble,” and Avith all 
the A'irulence of her coarse nature hurled their 
poA-erty in their teeth ? 

“ Famished curs !” cried she. “ Hoav avouIcI 
Avould ye have a soldo, Avhen your nobles dine 
on parched beans, and drink the little sour Avine 
of Ponteseive ?” 

A kick from a strong foot that sent it through 
the parchment of the drum, Avith a loud report, 
answered this insolent taunt, and gaA-e the sig- 
nal for a general attack. Down Avent the little 


Avooden edifice, Avhich embodied the life and for- 
tunes of tlie Don and the fair Princess of Cor- 
doA'a ; doAvn AA’ent the Babbo himself OA^er it, 
amid a crash of jifoperties that created a yell of 
laughter in the mob. All the varied insignia 
of the cunning craft, basins and bladders, jug- 
gling sticks, hoo])s, and baskets, fleAV right and 
left, in Avild confusion. Up to this time Gerald 
had Avitnessed the Avreck unmoA'ed, his whole 
care being to keep the croAvd from jmessing too 
rudely upon Marietta, Avho clung to liim for pro- 
tection. Indeed, the frantic struggles of old 
Gaetana, as she laid about her Avith her drumi 
sticks, had already provoked the youth’s laugh- 
ter, Avhen, at a cry from the girl, he turned quick- 
ly around. 

“Here’s the Princess herself. I’ll be sworn,” 
said a coarse-looking felloAv, as seizing Mariet- 
ta’s arm, he tried to drag her forAAUird. 

AVith a blow of his clenched fist, Gerald sent 
him reeling back, and then drawing the short 
scimitar Avliich he Avore as part of his costume, 
he swept the space in front of him, Avhile he 
grasped the girl Avith his other arm. So un- 
looked-for a defiance seemed for an instant to 
unman the mob, but the next moment a shoAver 
of missiles, the fragments of old Babbo’s fortune, 
were shoAvered upon them. Had he been as- 
sailed by Avild beasts, Gerald’s assault could not 
have been more Avildly daring ; he cut on eA'ery 
side, hurling back those that rushed in upon 
him, and ev'cn trampling them beneath his feet. 

Bleeding and bruised, half-blinded, too, by 
the blood that floAved from aAVOund on his fore- 
head, the youth still held his ground, not aAVord 
escaping him, not a cry ; Avhile the reviling of 
the mob filled the air around. At last, shamed 
at the miserable odds that had so long resisted 
them, the rabble, with a Avild yell of vengeance, 
rushed forward in a mass, and though some of 
the foremost fell covered Avith blood, the youth 
Avas dashed to the ground, all eagerly pressing 
to trample on and crusli him. 

“Over the parapet Avith him. Into the Arno 
Avith them both,” cried the mob. 

“ Stand back, ye coAvardly crcAv 1” shouted a 
loud strong A'oice, and a poAverful man, AAuth a 
lieaA^y bludgeon in his hand, burst through the 
croAvd, felling all that opposed him ; a throng 
of liA'ery seiwants armed in the same fashion fol- 
loAved ; and the mob, far more in number though 
they Avere, shrunk back abashed from the sight 
of one Avhose rank and station might exact a 
heavy vengeance. 

“ It is the Princijie. It is the Conte himself,” 
muttered one or tAvo, as they stole off, leaving 
in a fcAv moments the space cleared of all, save 
the Avounded and those avIio had come to the 
rescue. If the grief of Donna Gaetana was 
loudest, the injuries of poor Gerald Avere the 
gravest tliere. A deep cut had laid open his 
forcliead, another had cleft his shoulder, Avhile 
a terrible bloAV of a stone in the side made his 
respiration painful in the extreme. 

“Safe, Marietta mia; art safe?” Avhispered 
he, as she assisted him to rise. “ My poor boy,” 


48 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


said the Cotint. compassionately. “ She is safe, 
and owes it all to you. You beliayed nobly, 
lad. The Don himself, with all his Castilian 
blood, could not show a more courageous front.” 

Gerald looked at the speaker, and whether the 
tone of his voice, or that the words seemed to 
convey an unseemly jest, at such a moment, he 
Hushed till his check was crimson, and drawing 
himself up said: “And who arc you? or by 
what right do you pronounce upon 7>ii/ blood?” 

“ Gherardi mio, caro fratcllino,” whispered 
the girl. “It was he that saved us, and he is 
a Frince 1” 

“For the first, I thank him,” said the youth. 
“As to his rank, it is his own aftair and not mine.” 

“Well spoken, faith!” said the noble. “I 
tell thee, Giorgio,” added he to a friend at his 
side, “poets may well feel proud, when they see 
how the very utterance of their noble sentiments 
engenders noble thoughts. Look at that tatter- 
demalion, and think how came he by such no- 
tions.” 

The abject expression of Babbo’s gratitude, 
and the far more demonstrative enunciations of 
old Gaetana’s misery, here interrupted the col- 
loquy. In glowing terms she pictured the ca- 
lamity that had befallen them — a disaster irre- 
parable forevermore. Never again would hu- 
man ingenuity construct such mechanism as that 
which illustrated Don Callemacho’s life. The 
conjuring tools, too, were masterpieces, not to 
be replaced; and as to the drum, no contriv- 
ance of mere Avood and ram-skin ever wouhl 
give forth such sounds again. 

‘ ‘ Who knows, worthy Donna ?” said the Count, 
Avith a gruA'C half smile. “ Your oavu art might 
teach 3'ou, that CA’cn the great drama of antiqui- 
ty, lias its imitators — some say superiors — in our 
day.” 

“I’d say so, for one!” cried Gerald, Aviping 
the blood from his face. 

“Would you so, indeed?” asked the Count. 

“That Avould I, so long as glorious Alficri 
lives,” said Gerald resolutely. 

“What hast thou read of thy faA'orite poet, 
boy ?” asked the Count. 

“What have I not? the Saul, the Agamem- 
non, Orcste, Maria Stuart.” 

“Ah, Signor Principe, you should hear him 
in Orcste,” broke in Gaetana; “and he plays a 
solo on the trombone after the second act; he 
sets CA'ciw ass in the Campagna a braying, Avhen 
he comes to one part. Do it, Gherardi mio ; do 
it for his Highness. Ohi me ! Ave liaA'e no trom- 
bone left us,” and she burst out into a torrent 
of grief. 

“Take these people to the inn at the Porta 
Rossa,” said the Count to one of his seiwants. 
“Let them be Avell cared for and attended to. 
Fetch a surgeon to see this boy. Adio, my 
friends. I’ll come and see you to-morroAv, Avhen 
you arc Avell rested and refreshed.” 

In a boisterous profusion of thanks, old Bab- 
bo and the Donna uttered their gratitude, Avhile 
Gerald and Marietta kissed their benefactor’s 
hand, and moved on. 


“He’s a noble Signor,” muttered old Gacta- 
na ; “ and Pd sAvear by the accent of his Avords, 
he is no Florentine.” 

“Thou art right for once, old lady,” said the 
servant, as he led tl.e uay ; “he’s of the north, 
and the best blood of Piedmont.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


TUSCAN POLICE COURT. 


Long before their generous patron had aAvoke 
the folloAving morning, the little company of 
Babbo were standing as prisoners in the dread 
presence of the Prefetto. Conducted by^ a de- 
detachment of the carabinieri, and secured Avith 
manacles enough to have graced the limbs of 
galley-slaA^es, the “vagabonds,” as they Avere po- 
litely called, Avere led along through the streets, 
amid the jokes and mockeries of a veiy unsy'm- 
patliizing public. 

Tuscan justice, Ave arc informed by compe- 
tent authority, has not made, either in its essence 
or externals, any remarkable progress since the 
time Ave arc uoav speaking of; so that really, in 
recording this little passage of our hero’s life, 
Ave seem almost narrating an incident of our OAvn 
day. The same ruinous old edifice stands the 
Temple of Justice; the same dirt and squalor 
disgraces its avenues and approaches ; the same 
filtliy' mob beset the doors — a ragged mob, in 
Avhosc repulsiA'c features a smashed decalogue 
is marked, amid Avhom, in hot and eager haste, 
arc seen some others, a shadoAV better in dress, 
but more degraded still in look — the Ioav adA'o- 
cates of these courts, “ Cavallochi,” as they are 
styled — a class Avhosc INes of ignominy and sub- 
ornation Avould comprise almost CA-ery knoAvn 
species of rascality. By these men are others 
goaded on and stimulated to i)refcr claims against 
the Avell-to-do and resj.ectable ; by them are 
charges dcAused, circumstances invented, per- 
juries provided, at the shortest notice. They 
haA'e their company of false Avitnesses ready for 
any accusation — no impugnment upon their cred- 
it being the fact that they liA'c by perjury, and 
have no other subsistence. 

Meet president of such a court Avas the scoavI- 
ing, ill-dressed, and ill-favored felloAV, Avho, 
Avith tAvo squalid clerks at his side, sat judge 
of the tribunal. A fcAv SAvaggering carabinieri, 
Avith their carbines on their arms, moved in and 
out of the court, buffeting the croAvd Avith rude 
gestures, and deporting themselves like masters 
of the ignoble herd around them. By these, as 
it seemed — for all Avas mere conjecture liere — 
AA^ere the cases chosen for adjudication, the se- 
lection of the particular charges being their 
especial province. ElboAving their AA'ay through 
the filthy corridors, Avhere accusers and accused 
Avere inextricably mingled — the pri.<Toner, and 
the plaintiff, and the Avifness all jammed up 
together, and not unfrequently discussing the 
A'cxed question to be tried Avith all the virulence 
of partisans — the carabiniere makes his choice 


“THE CHEVALIER/’ 


among these, aided, not impossibly, by a stim- 
alant, which in Italy has its agency throughout 
all ranks and gradations of men. 

In this vile assemblage of all that was de- 
grading and wretched our poor strollers were 
now standing, their foreign aspect and their 
title of vagabonds obtaining for them a degree 
of notice the reverse of flattering. Sarcastic 
remarks upon their looks, their means of life, 
and, stranger still, their poverty, abounded; 
and these from a mob whose gaunt and famish- 
ed faces, and whose tattered rags, bespoke the 
last stage of destitution. 

The Babbo, indeed, was a picture of abject 
misery : bankrupt was written on every line of 
his poor old face, through which the paint of 
forty years blended with the sickly hues of hun- 
ger and fear. He turned upon the by-standers 
a glance of mild entreaty, however, that in a 
less cruel company could not have failed to 
meet some success. Not so Donna Gaetana : 
her stare was an open defiance, and even through 
her bleared eyes there shot sparks of fiery pas- 
sion that seemed only in search of a fitting ob- 
ject for their attack. 

As for Gerald — his head bound up in a bloody 
rag, his arm in a sling, and his face pale as 
death — he might have disarmed the malice of 
sarcasm, had it not been that he held his arm 
clasped close round Marietta’s waist ; and even 
thus, in all his misery, seemed to assert that he 
was her protector and defender. This was 
alone sufficient to afford scope for mockery and 
derision, the fairer portion of the audience dis- 
tinguishing themselves by the pungent sharp- 
ness of their criticisms ; and Marietta’s swarthy 
skin, her tinsel raggedness, and her wild, bold 
eyes, came in for their share of bitter comment- 
ary. “Bohemian Jewess,” “Arab wench,” 
were muttered in quick succession by envious 
lips ; for, in all her woe-begone wretchedness, 
her rags, her squalor, and her want, beauty and 
youth were still triumphant. In a wild and 
tangled profusion, the masses of her dark hair 
floated over her well-rounded shoulders, shad- 
owing her cheeks, and crossing, in two deep 
bands, over her bosom, where they were held 
by her hand. ’Tvvas thus, as in a frame, were 
fixed the faultless features of her calm but 
haughty face ; for, save in the slightly over- 
distended ndstril, a character of her blood, there 
was not a line nor a lineament a sculptor could 
have asked to alter. 

“ What a brazen-faced minx it is !” cried one. 

“What a young creature to have come to 
such wickedness !” exclaimed another. 

“Look at the roundness of her shape, and 
you’ll see she is not so very young neither,” 
whispered a third. 

“That’s her gipsy blood,” broke in another; 
“there was one here t’other day, of thirteen, 
with an infant at her breast; and, more by 
token, she had just put a stiletto into its fa- 
ther.” 

“The ragazza yonder looks quite equal to 
the same deed,” observed the former speaker. 
D 


49 

“If 7 know any thing about what an eye 
means.” 

“ Vincenzio Bombici — where is Vincenzio 
Bombici ?” cried a surly-looking brigadier, 
whose large cocked-hat set squarely on, in- 
creased the apparent breadth of an immensely 
wide face. 

“Ecco mi, Eccelenza!” whimpered out a 
wretched looking object, who, with his face 
bound up, and himself all swathed like Lazarus 
from the tomb, came, helped forward by two 
assistants. 

“Pass in, Vincenzio, and naiTate your case,” 
said the brigadier, as he opened a door into the 
dread chamber of justice. 

“ Poverino,” muttered the erowd, as he moved 
by; “he it is who was assassinated last night 
by the vagabonds” — the phrase being used pret- 
ty much as, in Hibernian parlance, “kilt” is 
employed for killed ; intention demonstrated in 
lieu of fact — another among the myriad of re- 
semblances between the two peoples. 

While public sympathy, therefore, followed 
the Signor Bombici into the hall of justice, 
fresh expressions of anger were vented on the 
unhappy strollers. Any one conversant with 
Italy is aware that so divided is the peninsula 
by national jealousies — feuds that date from 
centuries back — the most opprobrious epithet 
that hate or passion can employ against any 
one is to stigmatize him as the native of some 
other town or city. And now the mob broke 
into such gibes as, “Accursed Calabrians! Ah, 
vile assassins from Capri” — from Corsica, from 
the Abbruzzi ; from any where, in short, save 
the favored land they stood in. Donna Gaetana 
was not one who suffered herself to be arraigned 
without reply, nor was she remarkable for mod- 
eration in the style and manner of her rejoin- 
ders. With a voluble ribaldry, for which her 
nation enjoys a proud pre-eminenee, she assail- 
ed her opponents, one and all. She ridiculed 
their pretensions, mocked their poverty, jeered 
at their cowardice, and — ^last insult of all — de- 
rided their personal appearance. 

Passion fed her eloquence, and the old dame 
vented upon them insult after insult with a vol- 
ubility that was astounding. The language 
has a rich vocabulary of abuse; and she was 
master of its most choice treasures. We dare 
not, nor is there any need we should, write the 
vindictive and indecorous epithets she scattered 
broadcast around her ; and even as her enemies 
skulked craven from the field, her wrathful in- 
dignation tracked them as they went, sending 
words of outrage to bear them company. The 
mere numerical odds was strong against her, 
and the clamor that arose was deafening, draw- 
ing crowds to the doors and the street in front, 
and at last gaining such a height as to invade 
the sacred precincts of justice, overbearing the 
trembling accents of Bombici as he narrated his 
tale of woe. Out rushed the valiant Carabini- 
eri with the air of men hurrying to a storm, and 
as they clave their way through the crowd, 
striking, buffeting, trampling all before them. 


50 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


At sight of the governmental power the crowd 
quailed at once, all save one, the Donna. 
Standing to her guns to the last, she now turn- 
ed her sarcasms upon the gendarmes, over- 
whelming them with a perfect torrent of abuse, 
and with such success that the mob, so lately 
the mark of her virulence, actually shook with 
laughter at the new victims to her passion. For 
a moment discipline seemed like to yield to 
anger. The warriors appeared to waver in 
their impassive valor; but suddenly, with a 
gleam of wiser counsel, they formed a semi- 
circle behind the accused, and marched them 
bodily into the presence of the judge. 

Justice was apparently accustomed to similar 
interruptions ; at least, it neither seemed shock- 
ed nor disconcerted, but continued to listen 
with unbroken interest to Vincenzio Bombici’s 
sorrows — not, indeed, that he had arrived at 
the incident of the night before. Far from it. 
He was merely preluding in that fashion which 
the exactitude of the Tuscan law requires, and 
replying to the interesting interrogatories re- 
garding his former life, so essential to a due 
understanding of his present complaint. 

“You are, then, the son of Matteo Friuli 
Bornbici, by his wife, Fiammetta ?” read out the 
prefect, solemnly, from the notes he was taking. 

“No, Eccelenza. She was my father’s sec- 
ond wife. My mother’s name was Pacifica.” 

“Pacifica,” wrote the prefect. “Daughter 
of whom?” 

‘ ‘ Of Felice Corsari, tin-worker in the Borgo 
St. Apostoli.” 

“Not so fast, not so fast,” interposed the 
judge, as he took down the words, and then 
muttered to himself, “in the Borgo St. Apos- 
toli.” 

“My mother nfas one of eight — three sons 
and five daughters. The eldest boy, Onofrio — ” 

“Irrelevant, irrelevant; or, if necessary, to 
be recorded hereafter,” said the Prefect. “You 
were bred and brought up in the Catholic faith?” 

“Yes, Eccelenza. The Prete of San Gae- 
tano has confessed me since I was eleven years 
old. I have taken out more than two hundred 
pauls in private masses, and paid for three no- 
venas and a plenary, as the Prete will vouch.” 

“ I will note your character in this respect, 
Vincenzio,” said the Judge, approvingly. 

“ They will, probably, bring up before your 
worship the story against my father, that he stole 
the cloak of the Cancelliere Martelli, when he 
was performing the part of Pontius Pilate in the 
holy mysteries at Sienna ; but we have the doc- 
uments at home — " 

“Are they registered?” 

“ I believe not, Eccelenza.” 

‘ Are they stamped ?” 

“I’m afraid not, Eccelenza. The Cavallo- 
chio that defended my father couldn’t write 
himself, and it was one Leonardo Capprini — ” 

“The sausage-maker,” broke in the Judge, 
with a smack of his lips. 

“The same, Eccelenza; you knew him, per- 
haps.” 


“Knew him well, and liked his hog’s pud- 
dings much.” Justice seemed half ashamed at 
this confession of a weakness, and in a more 
stern tone, told him to “Go on.” 

It was not very easy for honest Vincenzio to 
know at what part of his history he was to take 
up the thread ; so he shuffled from foot to foot, 
and sighed despondingly. 

“I said ‘go on,’” said the Judge, more per- 
emptorily than before. 

“I was talking of my father, Eccelenza,” 
said he, modestl3^ 

“No, of your good mother, Fiammetta,” said 
the Judge, rather proud of the accuracy with 
which he retained the family history. 

“ She was my step-mother,” interposed Vin- 
cenzio, humbly. 

“Peccoroni tutti ! Blockheads all,” broke 
in old Gaetana, with a hearty laugh. 

“Zitta! silence,” cried the gendarmes, as 
with their muskets dropped to the ground, they 
made the chamber ring again ! while the Judge 
turning a glance of darkening anger on the 
speaker, said : “Who is this old woman,!” 

“Let me tell him. Let myself speak,” cried 
Gaetana, pressing forw ard, while the gendarmes 
with their instinct as to coming peril, prudently 
held her back. 

“So then,” said the Judge, in reply to a 
whisper of one of his assistants, “she is the 
principal delinquent ;” and referring to the w'rit- 
ten charge before him, read out: “An infuria- 
ted w’oman, who presided over the drum.” 

“ They smashed it, the thieves !” cried Gae- 
tana, “they smashed my drum; but, per Dio, 
I beat a roll on their own skulls that astonished 
them ! They’ll not deny that I gave them an 
ear for music.” And the old hag laughed loud 
at her savage jest. 

Again was silence commanded, and after 
some trouble obtained ; and the Judge, wdiose 
perceptions were evidently disturbed by these 
interruptions, betook himself to the pages of the 
indictment, to refresh his mind on the case. 
Muttering to himself the lines, he came to the 
words, “and with a formidable weapon, of solid 
wood, with the use of which long habit had 
rendered her familiar, and in this wise danger- 
ous, she, the aforesaid Gaetana, struck, beat, 
battered, and belabored — ” 

“ Didn’t I !” broke in the hag. 

What consequences might have ensued from 
this last interruption, must be left to mere guess, 
for the door of the chamber was now opened to 
its w’idest, to admit a gentleman, who came for- 
W’ard with the air of one in a certain authority. 
He was no other than the Count of the night 
before, who had so generously thrown his pro- 
tection over the strollers. Advancing to where 
the Prefetto sat, he leaned one arm on the ta^ 
ble, while he spoke to him in a low voice. 

The Judge listened with deference and atten-» 
tion, his manner being suddenly converted into 
the very lowest sycophancy. When it came to 
his turn to speak: “Certainly, Signor Conte; 
unquestionable,” muttered he. “It is enough 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


51 


that your Excellency deigns to express a wish 
on the subject,” and with many a bow, he ac- 
companied him to the door. A brief nod to 
the youth Gerald, was the only sign of recogni- 
tion he gave, and the Count withdrew. 

“This case is prorogued, ” said the Prefetto, 
solemnly. “The Court will inform itself upon 
its merits, and convoke the parties on some fu- 
ture day.” And now the gendarmes proceeded 
to clear the hall, huddling out together plaint- 
iflfs, and prisoners, and witnesses; all loudly 
inveighing, protesting, denouncing, and ex- 
plaining what nobody listened to or cared for. 

“Eh viva!” exclaimed old Gaetana, as she 
reached the open air. “There’s more justice 
here than I looked for.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE poet’s house. 

It was late on the evening of the same day 
whose doings in the way of justice we have de- 
scribed that Gerald received a message to say 
the Count desired to see him. No little jeal- 
ousy w'as occasioned among his companions by 
this invitation. The Babbo deemed that, as 
“ Impressario” of the company, he ought him- 
self to have been selected. Donna Gaetana 
was indignant that a mere Giovane was to oc- 
cupy the responsible station of representing their 
dramatic guild ; and even Marietta felt her eyes 
to swim, as she thought over this mere passing 
separation, and in her heart foreboded some ill 
to come of it. She, however, did her very best 
to master these unw'orthy fears. She washed 
the bloody stains carefully off his forehead. 
She combed and oiled his long silky hair. She 
aided him to dress in the one only suit that now 
remained of all his wardrobe, a page’s dress of 
light blue, with a little scarlet mantle, embroid- 
ered in silver, and a small bonnet surmounted 
by an ostrich feather. Nor was it without deep 
shame, and something very like open rebellion, 
that Gerald donned these motley habiliments. 

“The Count has not said that he wants me 
to exhibit before him — why am I to masquerade 
in this fashion ?” Alas ! poor boy, there is one 
answer to this question, whose force has over- 
whelmed more stubborn obstacles — necessity. 
There is no choice for you between this “ tinsel 
bravery,” and the tattered rags, all blood-stain- 
ed and torn, you wore last night. There they 
lay, scattered about, the crushed and crumpled 
hat, the doublet tom to ribbons, the rapier 
smashed — all a wreck. No, no, he could not 
appear in such a presence in rags like these. 
Still was he irritated and angry ; a sudden sense 
of shame shot through him as he saw himself 
thus alone, w'hich, had the others been joined 
with him, he had, doubtless, never felt; and, 
for the first time, his station suggested the idea 
of humiliation. 

“I will not go. Marietta,” said he, at last, as 
he flung himself upon a chair, and threw' his 


cap to the end of the room. “ So long as thou 
wert with me, sustaining the interest of the 
scene, replying to my words, answering every 
emotion of my heart, I loved Art — I cherished 
it as the fairest expression of what I felt, but 
could not speak. Now', alone and without thee, 
it is a mere mockery. It is more, it is a degra- 
dation.” 

She knelt down beside him, and took his 
hands in hers. She turned her full, moist eyes 
tow'ard him, and in broken words besought him 
not to speak slightingly of that which bound 
them to each other, for, “If the day comes, 
Gherardi mio, that thou thinkest meanly of our 
art, so surely will come another, when thou 
wilt be ashamed of vie," and she hid her face 
on his knees, and sobbed bitterly. With what 
an honest-hearted sincerity did he swear that 
such a day could never come ; or if it did, that 
he prayed it might be his last. And then he 
ran over, in eager tones, all that he owed to her 
teachings. How, but for her, he had not known 
the true tenderness of Metastasio, the fervor of 
Petrarch, or the chivalry of Ariosto. “How 
much have we found out together we had never 
discovered if alone!” Ay, Gerald, there was 
truth there, and the source of some sorrow too! 

And then they dried their tears, he kissed her 
twice, and set out on his way. 

It was with a look of haughty meaning, al- 
most defiant, Gerald ascended the marble stairs, 
and passed between two lines of liveried serv- 
ants, who smiled pitifully on the strolling play- 
er, nor put the slightest restraint upon this show 
of their contempt. Fortunately for him and 
them he had no time to mark it, for the folding 
doors suddenly opening, he found himself in a 
large chamber, brilliantly lighted, and with a 
numerous company assembled. Before the 
youth had well crossed the door-sill, the Count 
was at his side, and having kindly taken him 
by the hand, expressed a hope that he no lon- 
ger felt any bad effects of his late ill-treatment. 

Gerald stammered out his acknowledgments, 
and tried to make some excuses for his costume, 
which ended, at last, by the blunt avowal, “It 
was this or nothing, sir.” 

“The mishap is not without its advantage,” 
said the Count, in that calm voice which, but 
for a peculiar expression on his mouth, when he 
spoke, had something almost severe about it. 
“It was the resemblance you bear to a certain 
portrait was the reason of my sending for you 
to-night; your dress assists the likeness, for, 
strangely enough, it is of the very same style 
and color as of the picture. Come forward and 
I will present you to a lady who is curious to 
see you.” 

“Madame la Duchesse, this is the youth,” 
said the Count, as he bowed before a lady, who 
was seated in a deep chair, at either side of 
which, some ladies and gentlemen were stand- 
ing. She closed her fan, and leaned forward, 
and Gerald beheld a countenance which, if not 
beautiful, was striking enough to be remember- 
ed for years after. She was a blonde of the 


52 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


purest type, with full blue eyes, and masses of 
light ^air, which in long ringlets descended to 
her very shoulders ; the features were youthful, 
though she herself was no longer young ; and 
the same contradiction existed in their expres- 
sion, for they were calm, without softness, and 
had a fixity almost to sternness^ while their col- 
oring and tint were actually girlish in fresh- 
ness. There was in her air and demeanor, too, 
a similar discordance, for, though with a look 
of dignity, her gestures were abrupt, and her 
manner of speaking hurried. 

“He is like,” said she, scanning him through 
her eye-glass. “Come nearer, boy. Yes, 
strangely like,” said she, with a smile, rather 
indicating sarcasm than courtesy. “Let us 
compare him with the portrait,” and she gave 
her hand languidly, as she spoke, to be assisted 
to rise. The Count aided her, with every show 
of deference, respectfully offering his arm to 
conduct her; but she declined the attention 
with a slight motion of the head, and moved 
slowly on. As she went, the various persons 
who were seated arose, and they who stood in 
groups talking, hushed their voices, and stood 
in respectful attitude as she passed. None fol- 
lowed her but the Count and Gerald, who, at a 
signal, walked slowly behind. 

After traversing three rooms, whose costly 
furniture amazed the boy’s inexperience, they 
reached a small chamber, whose two narrow 
windows opened upon a little terrace. A single 
picture occupied the wall in front of these, to 
either side of whose frame two small lamps were 
attached, with shades so ingeniously contrived 
as to throw the light at will on any part of the 
painting. The Duchess had seated herself im- 
mediately on entering, with the air of one wea- 
ried and exhausted, and the Count occupied him- 
self in disposing the lamps to most advantage. 

“ Stand yonder, boy, and hold your cap in 
your hand, as you see it in the portrait,” and 
Gerald turned his eyes to the picture, and actu- 
ally started at the marvelous resemblance to 
himself. The figure was that of a youth some- 
what older, perhaps, than himself, dressed in a 
suit of velvet, with a deep lace collar, and hang- 
ing ruffles : the long ringlets which fell in pro- 
fusion on his neck ; the expression of the eyes, 
a look of sadness not unmixed with something 
stern, and a haughty gathering of the lower lip, 
were all that a painter might have given to 
Gerald, if endeavoring to impart to his likeness 
some few additional traits of vigor and determ- 
ination. 

“It is wonderful !” said the Duchess, after a 
long pause. 

“ So, indeed, it strikes me,” said the Count. 
“Mark, even to the flattening of the upper lip, 
how the resemblance holds.” 

“ What age are you — are you a Roman — what 
is your name ?” asked the Duchess, in a hurried 
but careless manner. 

“ My name is Fitzgerald. They call me here 
Gherardi, for some of the race took that name 
in Italy.” 


“ So that you talk of blood and lineage, boy?* 
asked she, haughtily. 

“ I am of the Geraldines, lady, and they were 
princes !” said the boy, as proudly. 

“ Came they from Scotland?” she asked, ea- 
gerly. 

“No, madam, they were Irish.” 

“ Irish ! Irish !” muttered she tAvice or thrice, 
below her breath; then, as her eyes caught 
sight of his features suddenly, she started and 
exclaimed : “ It is nigh incredible ! And how 
came you to Italy ?” 

With that brevity which distinguished Gerald, 
when speaking of himself, he told of his having 
been a scholar with the Jesuits, Avhere some — 
he knew not exactly which — of his relatives had 
placed him. 

“And you left them; how, and wherefore?” 

“I know not by what right, madam, I am 
thus questioned. If it be because I wear such 
tinsel rags as these. I’ll soon part company with 
them.” 

“Bethink you in whose presence you stand, 
boy,” said the Count, sternly ; “ that lady is one 
before whom the haughtiest noble is proud. to lay 
his homage.” 

“Nay, nay,” broke she in, gently, “he will 
tell me all I ask, in kindness, not in fear.” 

“ Not in fear, I promise you,” said he, proud- 
ly, and he drew himself up to his highest. 

“Was not that like him?” exclaimed the 
Duchess, eagerly. “ It was his OAvn voice ! 
And what good Italian you speak, boy,” said 
she, addressing Gerald, with a pleasant smile. 
“The Jesuit Fathers have given you the best 
Roman accent. Tell me — what were their 
teachings — what have you read ?” 

“Nothing, regularly — nothing in actual study, 
madam ; but, passingly, I have read, in French, 
some memoirs, plays, sermons, poems, ro- 
mances, and such like ; in English, very little ; 
and in Italian, a few of the very good.” 

“Which do you call the very good?” 

“ I call Dante.” 

“So do I. Goon.” 

“Sometimes I call Tasso, always Ariosto, 
so.” 

She nodded an assent, and told him to con- 
tinue. 

“ Then there is Metastasio.” 

“ What say you of him?” asked the Count. 

“ I like him : his rhymes flow gracefully, and 
the music of his verse floats sweetly in one’s 
ear ; but, then, there is not that sentiment, that 
vigorous dash that stirs the heart, like a trumpet 
call, such as we find, for instance, in Alfieri.” 
^ The Duchess smiled assuringly, and a faint, 
very faint tinge of red colored her pale cheek. 
“It appears, then, he is your favorite of them 
all?” said she, gently. “Can you remember 
any of his verses ?” 

“That can I. I knew him, at one time, oif 
by heart, but somehow, in this ignoble life of 
mine, I almost felt ashamed to recite his noble 
lines to those Avho heard me. To think, for ex- 
ample, of the great poet of the Oreste declaimed 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


5S 


before a vile mob, impatient for some buffoonery 
— eager for the moment when the jugglery would 
begin.” 

“ But you forget, boy, this is true fame ! It 
is little to the great poet that he is read and ad- 
mired by those to whose natures he can appeal 
by all the emotions which are common to each 
— lasting sympathies, whose dwelling places lie 
knows — the great triumph is, to have softened 
the hearts seared by dusty toil — to haA'e smit- 
ten tlie rock whose water is tears of joy and 
thankfulness. Is not Ariosto prouder as his 
verses float along the dark canals of Venice, 
than when they are recited under gilded ceil- 
ings?” 

“You may be right,” said the boy, thought- 
fully, as he hung his head ; “ am I not, myself, 
a proof of what the bright images of poetry 
have cheered and gladdened, out of depths of 
gloom and wretchedness? Not that I com- 
plain of this life of mine!” cried he, suddenly. 

“Tell us about it, boy; it must present 
strange scenes and events,” said the Count, and, 
taking Gerald’s arm, he pressed him to a seat 
beside him. The Duchess, too, bent on him 
one of her kindest smiles, so that he felt en- 
couraged in a moment. 

Oh, ye, who out of obscurity and humble 
station have first in life tasted the insidious 
flattery of being listened to by the great and 
gifted — having your feelings consulted, your re- 
marks noted, your very prejudices weighed — 
acknowledge frankly have ye ever, in all the 
successes of your after-life, known such an ec- 
stasy of triumph ! It is the very first step upon 
that ladder by which we aspire to fortune. 
Then, for the first time, do we know what cour- 
age self-esteem can lend us ; then, do we sign 
a bail bond with our own hearts that we will 
not loiter nor idle by the way, but toil manful- 
ly, and work hard, to gain that goal whose 
bourne is fame and credit ! 

And now Gerald talked away, as only the 
young can talk about themselves and their for- 
tunes. Their happy gift it is to have a softly 
tempered tint over even their egotism, making 
it often not ungraceful. He sketched a pictur- 
esque description of the stroller’s life : its free- 
dom compensating for his hardships ; its care- 
less ease recompensing many a passing mishap; 
the strange blending of study with little quaint 
and commonplace preparation ; the mind now 
charged with bright fancies, now busy in all the 
intricacies of costume ; the ever watchful atten- 
tion to the taste of that strange public that 
formed their patron, and who, not unfrequently 
wearying of Tasso and Guarini, called loudly 
for Punch and his ribaldries. The boy’s ac- 
count of the Babbo and Donna Gaetana was 
not devoid of humor, and he painted cleverly 
the simple old devotee giving every spare hour 
he could snatch to penances for the life he was 
leading; while the Donna took the world by 
storm, and started each day to the combat, like 
a soldier mounting a breach. Lastly, he came 
to Marietta, and then his voice changed, his 


cheek grew red and white by turns, and his 
chest heaved full and short, like one oppressed. 
He did not mark the looks of intelligence that 
passed between the Duchess and the Count ; he 
never saw how each turned to listen to him 
with the self-same expression on their features, 
he was too full of his theme to note these things, 
and vet he could not dilate upon it as he had 
about Babbo and the Donna. 

“I saw her,” said the Count, as Gerald came 
to a pause. “I noticed her at the court, and 
she was, indeed, very handsome. Something 
Egyptian in the cast of features.” 

“ But not a gipsy 1” broke in the boy, quickly. 

“No, perhaps not. The eyes and brow re- 
sembled the Moorish race — the same character 
of fixity in expression. Eyes, that carry — 

“ I tesori d’ amore e i suoi nnsconde." 

There was a sly malice in the way the Count 
led the boy on, opening the path, as it were, to 
his enthusiasm, and so artfully, that Gerald nev- 
er suspected it. 

No longer restrained by fear, or chilled by 
shame, he launched out into praises of her beau- 
ty, her gracefulness, and her genius. He told 
how that to read for her once over a poem of 
Petrarch or Metastasio, and she could repeat it 
word for word. With the same facility could 
she compose music for words that struck her 
fancy. The silvery sweetness of her voice — 
her light and graceful step — the power of ex- 
pression she possessed by gesture, look, and 
mien — he went over all these with a rapture 
that actually warmed into eloquence, and they 
who listened heard him with pleasure, and en- 
couraged him to continue. 

“We must see your Marietta,” said the 
Duchess at last. “ You shall bring her here.” 

Gerald’s cheek flushed, but whether with 
shame, or pride, or displeasure, or all three 
commingled, it were hard to say. In truth, 
many a hard conflict went on within him, when, 
out of his dream of art and its triumphs he 
would suddenly awake, and bethink him in what 
humble estimation men held such as he was ; 
how closely the world insisted on associating 
poverty with meanness ; and how hopeless were 
the task of him who would try to make himself 
respected in rags. 

As these thoughts arose to his mind, he lifted 
his eyes once more to the portrait, and in bit- 
terness of heart he felt how little resemblance 
was there in the condition of the youth there 
represented and himself. 

“I see what you are thinking of,” said the 
Duchess, mildly. “ Shall I show you another 
picture? It is of one you profess to admire 
greatly — your favorite Poet.” 

“I pray you do, madam. I long to know 
his features. It is a face I have painted in 
fancy often and often.” 

“ Tell me, then, how you would portray him,” 
said she, smiling. 

“Not regularly handsonie ; but noble-look- 
ing, with the traits of one who had such vigot 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


54 

of life and mind within, that ho lived more for 
his own thoughts than the ■world, and thus 
w^ould seem j)roud to sternness. A high, bold 
forehead, narrow and indented at the temples ; 
and a deep brow over two fierce eyes. Oh ! 
what wildly flashing eyes should Alfieri’s be 
when stirred by passion and excitement.” 

“ And should you find him different from all 
this — a man of milder mould — more common- 
place and less vigorous — will you still maintain 
that faith in his genius that now you profess?” 
said the Count, with slow and quiet utterance. 

“That will I. How could I, in my presump- 
tion, doubt the power that has moved the hearts 
of thousands ?” 

“Come, then, and look at him,” said the 
Duchess, and she arose, and moved into a room 
fitted up as a library. Over the chimney was a 
large picture, covered by a silk curtain. To 
this Gerald eagerly turned his eyes, for he al- 
ready marked that the gilded eagle that sur- 
mounted the frame held in his beak a wreath 
of flowers, interwoven with laurel leaves. 

“ One whose enthusiasm equals your own, 
boy, placed the wreath there, on the 17th of 
January last. It was the festa of Vittorio Al- 
fieri,” said the Duchess, as she gently pulled 
the cord that drew back the curtain. 

Gerald moved eagerly forward — gazed — pass- 
ed his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a 
fancy — gazed again and again — and then, turn- 
ing round, stood steadfastly staring at the Count 
himself. A faint, sad smile, was on the calm 
and haughty face ; but, as it passed away, the 
boy dropped down upon his knees, and seizing 
the other’s hand, kissed it rapturously, as he 
cried — 

“ Oh ! that I should have ever known a mo- 
ment like this. Tell me, I beseech. Signor 
Conte, is my brain wandering, or are you Al- 
fieri ?” 

“Yes, boy,” said he, with a slight sigh, while 
he raised him from the ground, laying one hand 
gently on his shoulder. 

“ It is with reason, boy, you are proud of this 
event in your life,” said the Duchess. “The 
truly great are few in this world of ours ; and 
you now stand before one whose memory will 
be treasured when we are all dust.” 

The Poet did not seem to heed or hear these 
words, but stood calmly w'atching the boy, Avho 
continued to turn his eyes alternately from the 
picture to the original. 

“ I suspect, boy,” said he, ■with a smile, “ that 
your mind-drawn picture satisfied you better — 
is it not so?” 

“ Oh ! you who can so read hearts, why will 
you not interpret mine ?” cried Gerald, in rap- 
ture ; for now to his memory, in quick succes- 
sion, were rising the brilliant fancies, the splen- 
did images, the heart-moving words of one 
whose genius had been a sort of worship to him. 

“This, too, is fame!” said the Poet, turning 
to the Duchess. “ But we are taking you too 
long from your guests, madam ; and Gherardi 
and I will have many an opportunity of meet- 


ing. Come up here to-morrow in the forenoon, 
and let me talk with you. The youth is more 
complimentary to me than was the Cardinal 
yesterday.” 

“ What was it that he said ?” asked she. 

“He wondered I should have written the 
tragedy of ‘ Saul,’ since we had it already in the 
Bible ! To-morrow, Gherardi, about eleven, or 
even earlier — a rivederlo!” 

As with slow steps — half in a dream, and 
scarce daring to credit his senses — Gerald moved 
down the stairs, the Poet overtook him, and, 
pressing a purse into his hand, said — 

“You must have some more suitable dress 
than this, and remember to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A lover’s quarrel. 

When Gerald found himself once more in 
Tiis little room at the Porta Rossa, it was past 
midnight. He opened his Avindow and sat doAvn 
at it to gaze out upon the starry sky and drink 
in the refreshing night-air; but, more than 
even these to calm down the excitement of his 
feelings, and endeavor to persuade himself that 
wdiat he had passed through w^as not a dream. 
It is not easy for those who have access to CA'ery 
grade they wish in life — who, perhaps, confer 
honor where they go — to fashion to their minds 
the strange, Avild conflict that raged within the 
youth’s heart at this moment. Little as he had 
seen of the great Poet, he could not help com- 
paring him Avith Gabriel, his acquaintance at 
the Tana. They Avere both proud, cold, stern 
men — strong in conscious poAver — self-reliant 
and daring. Are all men' of genius of that 
stamp? thought Gerald. Are they Avho diffuse 
through existence its most elevating influences 
— its most softening emotions — are they hard 
of mould and stern in character? Does the 
force with Avhich they move the AAorld require 
this impulse of temperament, as rivers that 
tra Averse great continents come doAvn, at first, 
from lofty mountains ? And if it be so, is not 
this a heaAy price for Avhich to buy even fame ? 
Then, again, he bethought him, Avhat a noble 
gift to bestoAA'^ must be the affection of such men 
— hoAv proud must be they who oAvned their love 
or shared their friendship ! While he Avas thus 
musing, a round, AA'arm arm clasped his neck, 
and Marietta sat doAvn beside him. She had 
Avaited hours for his return, and now stole gen- 
tly to his room to meet him. 

“ I could not sleep till I had seen you, Caro,” 
said she, fondly. “It seemed as if, in these 
feAv hours, years had separated us.” 

“And if they had. Marietta, they could 
scarcely have brought about any thing stranger. 
Guess Avhere I have been — Avith Avhom I havt 
passed this entire evening.” 

“ Hoav can I ? Was he a prince ?” 

“Greater than any prince.” 

“ That must mean a king, then.” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


55 


“Kings die, and ' few lines chronicle them ; 
but I speak of one whose memory will be graven 
in his language, and whose noble sentiments 
will be texts to future generations. What think 
you, child, of Alheri?” 

“ Alfieri !” 

“Himself. He was the Count who rescued 
us fi'om the mob ; and with him I have passed 
the hours since I saw you. Not that I ever 
knew nor suspected it. Marietta ; if I had, I had 
never dared to speak as I did about ourselves 
and our wayward lives in such a presence. I 
had felt these themes ignoble.” 

“ How so?” cried she eagerly. “You have 
ever told me that art was an ennobling and a 
glorious thing, that after those whose genius 
embodied grand conceptions, came he who gave 
them utterance. How often have you said, the 
poet lives but half in men’s hearts whose verses 
have not found some meet interpreter; with 
words like these have you stimulated me to 
study, and now — 

“And now,” said he, sighing drearily, “I 
wake to feel what a mere mockery it is — 

‘ Tra Tombra 6 bella 
L'istessa Stella 
(Jhe in faccia del sole 
Non si mirb.* 

Ah, M^^r^tta mia, he who creates is alone an 
artist.” 

The girl bent her head upon her bosom, and 
while her long waving curls fell loosely over 
him, she sobbed bitterly. Oh, if you who now 
deign to read these lines can bring to mind the 
hour that robbed you of a first illusion in life, 
tore it from your heart as it clung there like an 
infant to its mother — have pity upon her who 
now wept so sorrowfully! It was that heart- 
whole grief no consolation can lessen, nor did 
Gerald essay one word of comfort. He clasped 
her closer to his heart, but never spoke a syl- 
lable. 

“I ever thought it would be so,” murmured 
she, at last : “I felt that in this sense of birth 
and blood you boasted of, would one day come 
a feeling of shame to be the companion of such 
as me. It is not from art itself you turn away, 
it is the company of the strolling actor that you 
shun.” 

“And who or what am I that I should do 
so?” said Gerald, boldly. “When, or where 
have I known such happiness as with you. Ma- 
rietta? Bethink you of the hours we have 
passed together, poring over these dear old 
books there, enriching our hearts with noble 
thoughts, and making the poet the interpreter 
between us. Telling, too, in the fervor we 
spoke his lines, how tenderly we felt them ; as 
Metastasio says — 

‘ And as we lisped the verse along, 

Learning to love.’ ” 

“And now it is over,” said she, with a sigh 
of deep despondency. 

“Why so? Shall I, in learning to know 
the great and the illustrious— to feel how their 
own high thoughts sway and rule them — be less 


worthy of your love? The Poet told me, to- 
night, that I declaimed his lines well ; but who 
taught me to feel them. Marietta mia.” And 
he kissed her cheek, bathed as it was and seam-, 
ed with hot tears. Again he tried to bring 
back the dream of the past, and their oft-pro- 
jected scheme of life ; but he urged the theme 
no longer as of old ; and even when describing 
the world they were about to fly from, his 
words trembled with the emotion that swelled 
in his heart. In the midst of all these would 
he break off suddenly with some recollection of 
the great Poet, who filled every avenue of his 
thoughts ; his proud but graceful demeanor, his 
low deep-toned voice, his smile so kind and yet 
so sad withal ; a gentleness, too, in his manner 
that invited confidence, seemed to dwell in 
Gerald’s memory, and shed, as it were, a soft 
and pleasing light over all that had passed. 

“And I am to see him again to-morrow. 
Marietta,” continued he, proudly; “he is to 
take me with him to the Galleries ; I am to see 
the Pitti and the Offizzi, where in the Tribune 
the great triumphs of Raffael are placed, and 
the statue of Venus, too ; he is to show me 
these, and the portraits of all the illustrious 
men who have made Italy glorious. How ea- 
ger I am to know how they looked in life, and 
if their features revealed the consciousness of 
the fame they were to inherit. And when I 
come back, at night, to thee. Marietta, how full 
shall I be of all these, and how overjoyed if I 
can pour into your heart the pleasures that 
swell in my own. Is it not good, dearest, that 
I should go forth thus to bring back to you the 
glad tidings of so many beautiful things — will 
you not be happier for yourself prouder in me ? 
Will it not be better to have the love of one 
whose mind is daily expanding, straining to 
greater efforts, growing in knowledge and gain- 
ing in cultivation ? Shall I not be more worthy 
of you if I win praise from others ? And I am 
resolved to do this. Marietta. I will not be 
satisfied to be ever the mean, ignoble thing I 
now am.” 

‘ ‘ Our life did not seem so unworthy in your 
eyes a day or two ago,” said she, sighing. 
“You told me, as we came up the Val D’Arno, 
that our wandering, wayward existence had a 
poetry of its own that you loved dearly. That 
to you ambition could never offer a path equal 
to that wayside rambling life, over whose little 
accidents the softening influences of divine verse 
shed their mild light, so that the ideal world 
dominated over the actual.” 

“All these will I realize, but in a higher 
sphere. Marietta. The great Alfieri himself 
told me that a life without labor, is an igno- 
miny and a shame. That he who strains his 
faculties to attain a goal is nobler far than one 
whose higher gifts lie rusting in disuse. Man 
lives not for himself, but for his fellows, said 
he, nor is there such incarnate selfishness as 
indolence.” 

“And where, and how, and when is this 
wondrous life of exertion to be begun?” said 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


56 

she, half scornfully. “ Can the great Poet pour 
into your heart out of the fullness of his own, 
and make you as he is ? Or are you suddenly 
become rich and great, like hhnf" 

The youth started, and an angry flush cov- 
ered his face, and even his forehead, as he 
arose and walked the room. 

“I see well what is working within you,” 
said the girl. “ The contrast from that splen- 
dor to this misery — these poor bleak walls, 
where no pictures are hanging, no gilding glit- 
ters — is too great for you. It is the same shock 
to your nature as from the beautiful princess in 
whose presence you stood to that humble bench 
beside wie.” 

“No, by Heaven! Marietta,” cried he, pas- 
sionately, “ I have not an ambition in my heart 
wherein your share is not allotted. It" is that 
you may walk with me to the goal — ” 

A scornful gesture of disbelief, one of those 
movements which, with Italians, have a signif- 
icance no words ever convey, interrupted his 
protestation. 

“This is too bad !” burst he in; “nor had 
you ever conceived such distrust of me if your 
own heart did not give the prompting. There, 
there,” cried he, as he pointed his Anger at her, 
while her eyes flashed and sparkled with a wild 
and lustrous expression, “your very looks be- 
tray you.” 

“Betray me! this is no betrayal,” said she, 
haughtily. ‘/I have no shame in declaring 
that I, too, covet fame, even as you do. Were 
some mighty patron to condescend to favor me 
— to fancy that I resembled, I know not what 
great personage — to imagine that in my traits 
of look and voice theirs were reflected, it is just 
as likely I should thank fortune for the acci- 
dent, and bid adieu to yon, as you intend, to- 
morrow or next day, to take leave of wie.” 

She spoke boldly and defiantly, her large, 
full eyes gazing in his with a steadfast and un- 
flinching look, while Gerald held down his head 
in sorrow and in shame. When some rude 
shock has riven our heart, how rapidly ooze out 
the precious illusions it has taken years to store 
up there ! Golden visions — the treasured wealth 
of many a long day’s thought — disappear like 
morning’s mists, and all the preconceived plans 
of a future life vanish into empty air. What 
misery ever equals the solitude of a heart thus 
desolate! the home of a thousand aifections, 
now solitary and deserted ! Into those empty 
temples of our nature the first guests who enter 
are the masters forevermore, and we are proud 
or humble, vengeful or forgiving, long-suffering 
or impatient, just as this moment of our desti- 
ny decides us. 

Nor was it alone with himself that Gerald 
was at war, for Marietta had shocked and start- 
led him by qualities he had never suspected in 
her. In her passion she had declared that her 
heart was set upon ambitions daring as his 
own ; and, even granting that much of what 
she said was prompted by wounded pride, there 
tvas in her wildly-excited glances, and her trem- 


bling lips, the sign of a temperament that knew 
little of forgiveness. Ah, these lover’s quarrels 
are strange conflicts, wherein our own hearts 
oft play us treason ! The sentiment of affec- 
tion that dwells within, rebel-like, allies itself 
with the enemy, and we have not the self-con- 
fidence that gives vigor to a real struggle. If 
Gerald was then amazed by discovering Mari- 
etta to be different from all he had ever seen 
her, he was more in love with her than ever. 

She had opened the window, and, with her 
face between her hands, gazed out upon the 
silent street. Gerald took his place at her side, 
and thus they remained for some time without' 
a word. A low, faint sigh at last came from 
the girl, and, placing his arm around her, Ger- 
ald drew her gently to him, murmuring softly 
in her ear, 

“L’onda che mormora, 

Tra sponda e sponda ; 

L!aura che tremola, 

Tra fronda e fronda. 

E meno instabile, 

Del vostro cor.” 

She never spoke, but, averting her head still 
farther from him, screened herself from his view. 
At last a low, soft murmuring broke from her 
lips, and she sang, in accents scarcely above 
her breath, one of these little native songs she 
was so fond of. It was a wild but plaintive air, 
sounding like the wayward cadences of one who 
left her fancy free to give music to the verse, 
each stanza ending with the words, 

‘‘Non ho pin remi, 

Non ho pin vele, 

E al 8UO talento 
Mi porta il mar.” 

With a touching-tenderness that thrilled through 
Gerald’s heart she sung, with many a faltering 
accent, and in a tremulous tone, the simple 
words, 

“ Like a lone bark, forsaken, 

I float on a nameless sea. 

No oars nor sails remaining, 

I go where the waves bear me. 

“I look not up to the starry sky, 

For I have no course to run. 

Nor eagerly wait, as the dawn draws nigh, 

To watch for the rising sun. 

“For noon is dark as the night to me. 

To-day is the same as to-morrow. 

As, forsaken, I float on the nameless sea, 

To think and weep over my sorrow.” 

“Oh, Marietta, if thou wouldst not wring 
my heart do not sing that sad air,” cried Ger- 
ald, pressing her tenderly eo him. “I bore it 
ill in our happiest hours, when all Avent well 
and hopefully with us.” 

“It better suits the present, then,” said she, 
calmly; then added, Avith a sudden energy — 
“at all events, it suits mv humor!” 

“Thou wouldst break with me, then. Mari- 
etta?” said Gerald, relaxing his hold on her, 
and turning his eyes fully upon her face. 

“Look down there,” cried she, pointing Avith 
her finger : “ that street beneath us is narrow 
enough, but it has two exits : Avhy shouldn’t yo* 
take one road, and I the other ?” 

“ Agreed ; so be it, then ;” said Gerald, pas* 


57 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


sionately; “only remember, this project never 
came from me." 

“If there be blame for it, I accept it all;” 
said she, calmly. “These things come ever of 
caprice, and they go as they come — as your own 
Poet has it — 

Si sente che diletta 
Ma non si sa perch6.” 

And with a cold smile and a light motion of the 
hand, as in adieu, she turned away and left the 
room. As for Gerald, he buried his face be- 
tween his haifds and sobbed as though his heart 
was breaking. Alternately accusing Marietta 
and himself of cruelty and injustice, his mind 
was racked by a conflict, to which nothing of- 
fered consolation. If, at one moment he 
thought to justify himself and his own conduct, 
at the next he took Marietta’s part, and inveigh- 
ed against his own cruel desertion of her. As 
is ever the case in such quarrels, no distinct 
cause existed, the conflict growing out of the 
very words they were uttering, half in attempt- 
ed justification, and thus all thought of repara- 
tion was impossible. “And is she not unfair,” 
cried he, “to deny me the very road to that 
ambition by which I would make myself of 
more value to her love ? Should not the proud 
notice of the great Poet have awakened in her 
heart a sense of triumph equal to that within 
my own? Why this jealousy of my success, 
when it is equally hers? Or is it,” cried he, 
bitterly, “that out of this thing we call Art 
spring rivalries that poison every nobler senti- 
ment.” No sooner did these thoughts flash 
across his mind, than he seized upon it as a 
great discovery, fancying that by it he had 
reached the explanation of all that had hither- 
to puzzled him. “Yes,” cried he, “the mys- 
tery is solved at last. In this unreal world, 
W'herein we imbue our hearts with sorrows and 
joys not bora of ourselves, we soon grow to be 
factitious as the passions we personate. All 
wide and generous views of life come to be re- 
garded as treason to the cause of that feigned 
existence of the stage, where nothing is real 
but the jealousy.” And while he reasoned 
thus, there arose to his memory the teachings 
he had oft received from Gabriel ; the dark 
skepticism of all good in women, that formed a 
favorite theme with him, and he recalled the 
bitter sarcasm with which, speaking of girlhood, 
he had said — “Fidelity is not natural to the 
sex — the young are always false.” 

Thus Was it, that a poison long latent in his 
nature began to work, when unsoundness seized 
him, and each thought that had never seen the 
light came flaunting forth in noonday. 

He tried to compose himself to sleep ; he 
lay down on his bed, and endeavored in many 
ways to induce that calm spirit, which leads to 
slumber; he even murmured to himself the 
long-forgotten litanies he had learned, as a 
student, in the College; but the fever that 
raged within defied all these attempts, and foil- 
ed in his efforts, he arose and left the house. 
The day was just dawning, and a pinkish streak 


of sky could be seen over the mountains of 
Vair Ombrosa, while all the vale of the Arno 
and Florence itself lay in deep shadow; the 
great “Duomo” and the tall tower at its side 
not yet catching the first gleam of the rising 
sun. Gerald left the gates of the city, and 
strode on manfully till he gained the crest of 
the “Bello Sguardo,” whence the view of the 
city and its environs is peculiarly fine. Here 
he sat down to gaze on the scene beneath him ; 
that wondrous map, whose history contains rec- 
ords of mingled greatness, crime, genius, noble 
patriotism, and base treachery such as all Eu- 
rope itself can not equal ; and thus gazing, and 
thus musing, he sank into deep sleep. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE “drop.” 

The morning was already far advanced and 
the sun high when Gerald awoke. The heavy 
dews had penetrated his frail clothing and chill- 
ed him, while the hot gleam of the sun glowed 
fiercely on his face and temples. He was so 
confused besides, by his dream and by the ob- 
jects about him, that he sat vainly endeavoring 
to remember how and why he had come there. 

One by one, like stragglers falling into line, 
his wandering faculties came back, and he be- 
thought him of the Poet’s house, Alfie'ri him- 
self, the Duchess, and lastly, of his quarrel with 
Marietta — an incident which, do what he might, 
seemed utterly unaccountable to him. If he 
felt persuaded that he was in the right through- 
out, the persuasion gave him no pleasure — far 
from it. It had been infinitely easier for him 
now, if he had wronged her, to seek her for- 
giveness, than forgive himself for having offend- 
ed her. She, so devoted to him ! She, who 
who had taken such pains to teach him all the 
excellences of the poets she loved ; who had 
stored his mind with Petrarch, and filled his 
imagination with Ariosto ; who taught him to 
recognize in himself feelings, and thoughts, and 
hopes akin to those their heroes felt, and thus 
elevated him in his own esteem. And what a 
genius was hers ; how easily she adapted her- 
self to each passing mood, and was gay or sor- 
rowful, volatile or passionate, as fancy inclined 
her. How instinctively her beautiful features 
caught up the expression of each passion ; how 
wild the transports of her joy ; how terrible the 
agonies of her hatred ! 

With what fine subtlety, too, she interpreted 
all she read, discovering hidden meanings, and 
eliciting springs of action from words apparent- 
ly insignificant ; and then her memory, was it 
not inexhaustible ? An image, a passing simile 
from a poet she loved, was enough to bring up 
before her whole cantos ; and thus, stored with 
rich gems of thought, her conversation acquired 
a grace and a charm that were actual fascina- 
tion. And was he now to tear himself away 
from charms like these, and forever too ? But 


58 


GERALD FITZGERALD, ^ 


why was she displeased with him ? how had he 
offended her? Surely it was not the notice of 
the great Poet had awakened her jealousy; and 
yet, when she thought over her own great gifts, 
the many attractions she herself possessed — 
claims to notice far greater than his could ever 
be, Gerald felt that she might well have resent- 
ed this neglect. 

“And how much of this is my own fault?” 
cried he, aloud. “ Why did I not tell the Poet 
of her great genius? Why not stimulate his 
curiosity to see and hear her ? How soon would 
he have recognized the noble qualities of her 
nature.” 

Angry with himself, and eager to repair the 
injustice he had done, he arose and set out for 
the city, resolved to see Alfieri, and proclaim 
all Marietta’s accomplishments and talents. 

“He praised me last night,” muttered he, as 
he went along; “but what will he say of her? 
She shall recite for him the ‘ Didone,’ the lines 
beginning, 

‘No! sdegnata non sono !’ 

If his heart does not thrill as he listens, he is 
more or less than man ! He shall hear, too, 
his own Cleopatra uttered in accents that he 
never dreamed of. And then she shall vary 
her mood, and sing him one of her Sicilian bar- 
caroles, or dance the Tiranna. Ah, Signor 
Poeta,” said he, aloud, “even thy lofty imag- 
ination shall gain by gazing upon one gifted and 
beautiful as she is.” 

Scarcely had Gerald reached the Roman gate 
when a large cavalcade was making its exit 
through the deep archway, and the crowd fall- 
ing back made way for the mounted party. 
Uj)ward of twenty cavaliers and ladies rode 
past, each mounted and followed by a numer- 
ous suit, whose equipment proclaimed the party 
to be of rank and consideration. As Gerald 
stood aside to make place for them to pass, a 
pair of dark eyes darted keenly toward him, and 
a deep voice called out, 

“There’s my Cerretano, that I was telling 
you about, Eccolo ! Gherardi, boy, what brings 
thee here ?” 

Gerald looked up and saw it was the Poet 
who addressed him ; but before he could sum- 
mon courage to answer, the other said, 

“Thou promised to be with me this morning 
early, and hast forgotten it all, not to say that 
thou wert to equip thyself in something more 
suitable than this motley. Never mind, come 
along with us. Cesare, give him your pony, he 
is quiet and easy to ride. Fair ladies all,” add- 
ed he, addressing the party, “this youth de- 
claims the verse of Alfieri, as such a great Poet 
merits ! Gherardi mio, this is a public worthy 
of thy best efforts to please ! Get into the sad- 
dle, it’s the surest, not to say the pleasantest 
way to jog toward Parnassus !” 

Gerald was not exaetly in the mood to like 
this bantering ; he was ill at ease with himself, 
and not over well satisfied with the world at 
large, and he had half turned to decline the 


Poet’s invitation, when a gentle voice addressed 
him, saying, 

“ Pray be my cavalier, Signorino ; you see I 
have none.” 

“Not ours the fault, Madame la Marquise,” 
quickly retorted Alfieri; “you rejected us each 
in turn. Felice was too dull, Adriano too live- 
ly, Giorgio was vain, and I — I forget what I 
was.” 

“Worst of all, a great genius in the full blaze 
of his glory. No ; I’ll take Signor Gherardi — 
that is, if he will permit me.” # 

Gerald took off his cap and bowed deeply in 
reply ; as he lifted his head he for the first time 
beheld the features of her who addressed him. 
She was a lady no longer young, past even the 
prime of life, but retaining still something more 
than the traces of what had once been great 
beauty : fair brown hair, and blue eyes shaded by 
long dark lashes, preserved to her face a sem- 
blance of youthfulness ; and there was a co- 
quetry in her riding-dress — the hat looped up 
with a richly-jeweled band, and the front of 
her habit embroidered in gold — which showed 
that she maintained pretensions to be noticed 
and honored. ® 

As Gerald rode along at her side, she drew 
him gradually and easily into conversation, with 
the consummate art of one who had brought the 
gift to high perfection. She knew how to lead 
a timid talker on, to induce him to venture on 
opinions, and even try and sustain them. She 
understood well, besides, when, and how, and 
how far, to offer a dissent, and at what mo- 
ments to appear to yield convictions to another. 
She possessed all that graceful tact which sup- 
plies to mere chit-chat that much of epigram 
that elevates, without pedantry ; a degree of 
point that stimulates, yet never wounds. 

“The resemblance is marvelous I” whisper- 
ed she to Alfieri, as he chanced to ride up be- 
side her; “and not only in look, but actually 
in voice, and in many a trick of gesture.” 

“ I knew you’d see it !” cried the Poet, tri- 
umphantly. 

“And can nothing be known about his his- 
tory? Surely we could trace him.” 

“I like the episode better as it is,” said he, 
carelessly. “ Some vulgar fact might, like a 
rude blow, demolish the whole edifice one’s fan- 
cy had nigh completed. There he stands now, 
handsome, gifted, and a mystery. M'hat could 
add to the combination ?” 

“The secret of an illustrious birth, ” whisper- 
ed the Marquise. 

“ I lean to the other view. I’d rather fancy 
nature had some subtle design of her own, some 
deep-wrought scheme to work out by this strange 
counterfeit.” 

“Yes, Gherardi,” as the youth looked sud- 
denly around; “yes, Gherardi,” said she, “we 
were talking of you, and of your great likeness 
to one we were both acquainted with.” 

“ If it be to that prince whose picture I saw 
last night,” replied he, “I suspect the resem- 
blance goes no farther than externals. There 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


59 


can be, indeed, little less like a princely station 
than mine.” 

“Ah, boy,” broke in the Poet, “there will 
never be in all your history as sad a fate as has 
befallen him.” 

“I envy one whose fortune admits of re- 
verses!” said Gerald, peevishly. “Better be 
storm-tossed than never launched.” 

“I declare,” whispered the Marquise, “as he 
spoke there, I could have believed it was Mon- 
sieur de Saint George himself I was listening 
to. Those little wayward bursts of temper — ” 

“ Summer lightnings,” broke in Alfieri. 

“Just so; they mean nothing — they herald 
nothing — 

“ ‘ They flash like anger o’er the sky, 

And then dissolve in tears.’ ” 

“True,” said the poet. “But harmless as 
these elemental changes seem, we forget how 
they affect others — what blights they often leave 
in their track. 

“ ‘ The sport the gods delight in 
Makes mortals grieve below.’ ” 

“It was Fabri wrote that line,” said Gerald, 
catching at the quotation. 

“Yes, Madame la Marquise,” said Alfieri, 
answering the quickly-darted glances of the 
lady’s eyes, “this youth has read all sorts of 
authors. A certain Signor Gabriel, with whom 
he sojourned months long in the Maremma, in- 
troduced him to Voltaire, Diderot, and Rous- 
seau : his own discursive tastes added others to 
the list.” 

“ Gabriel ! Gabriel! It could not be that it 
was — ” and here she bent over, and whispered 
a word in Alfieri’s ear. 

A sudden start, and an exclamation of sur- 
prise, burst from the poet. 

“ Tell us what was your friend Gabriel like.” 

“ I can tell you how he described himself,” 
said Gerald. “He said he was — 

“Un sanglier marque de petite verole.” 

“Oh, then, it was he,” exclaimed the Mar- 
quise. “Tell us, I pray you, how fortune came 
to play you so heartless a trick as to be this 
man’s friend ?” 

Half reluctantly, almost resentfully, Gerald 
replied to this question by relating the incidents 
that had befallen him in the Maremma, and how 
he had subsequently lived for months the com- 
panion of this strange associate. 

“What marvelous lessons of evil, boy, has 
he not instilled into you ! Tell me, frankly, has 
he not made you suspectful of every one — dis- 
trusting all friendship — disowning all obliga- 
tions — making affection seem a moekery, and 
woman a cheat ?” 

“I have heard good and bad from his lips. 
If he spoke hastily of the world at times, may- 
liap it had not treated him with too much kind- 
ness. Indeed he said as much to me, and that 
it was not his fault that he thought so meanly 
of mankind.” 

“What poison this to pour into a young 
heart!” broke in Alfieri. “The cattle upon 


the thousand hills eat not of noxious herbage ; 
their better instincts protect them, even where 
seductive fruits and flowers woo their tastes. It 
is man alone is beguiled by false appearances, 
and this out of the very subtlety of his own na- 
ture. The plague-spot of the heart is distrust!” 

“ These are better teachings, boy, than Signor 
Gabriel’s,” said the lady. 

“You know him, then?” asked Gerald. 

‘ ‘ I have little doubt that we are speaking of 
the same person ; and if so, not I alone, but all 
Europe knows him.” 

Gerald burned to inquire farther, to know 
who and what this mysterious man was — how 
he had earned the terrible reputation that at- 
tended him, and what charges were alleged 
against him. He could not dare, however, to 
put questions in such a presence, and he sat 
moodily thinking over the issue. 

Diverging from the high road, they now en- 
tered a pathway which led through the vine- 
yards and the olive groves ; and, being narrow, 
Gerald found himself side by side with the Mar- 
quise, without any other near. Here, at length, 
his curiosity mastered all reserve, and plucking 
up courage for the effort, he said, 

“If my presumption w'ere not too bold, Ma- 
dame, I would deem it a great favor to be per- 
mitted to ask you something of this Signor Ga- 
briel. I know and feel that, do what I will, 
reason how I may, reject what I can, yet still 
his words have eaten down deep into my heart ; 
and if I can not put some antidote there against 
their influence, that they will sway me even 
against myself.” 

“First, let me hear how he represented him- 
self to you. Was he as a good man grossly 
tricked and cheated by the world, his candor 
imposed on, his generosity betrayed? Did he 
picture a noble nature basely trifled with?” 

“No, no,” broke in Gerald: “he said, in- 
deed, at first he felt disposed to like his fellow^- 
men, but that the impulse was unprofitable ; 
that the true philosophy was unbelief. Still he 
avowed that he devoted himself to every indulg- 
ence ; that happiness meant pleasure, pleasure 
excess ; tliat out of the convulsive throes of the 
wildest debauchery, great and glorious sensa- 
tions, ennobling thoughts spring — just as the 
volcano in full eruption throws up gold amid 
the lava : and he bade me, if I would know my- 
self, to taste of this same existence.” 

“Poor boy, these were trying temptations.” 

“Not so,” broke in Gerald, proudly; “I 
wanted to be something better and greater than 
this.” 

“ And what would you be ?” asked the Mar- 
quise, as she turned a look of interest on him. 

“ Oh, if a heart’s yearning could do it,” cried 
Gerald, warmly, “ I would be like him who rides 
yonder; I would be one whose words would 
give voice to many an unspoken emotion — who 
could make sad men hopeful, and throw over 
the dreariest waste of existence the soft mild 
light of ideal happiness.” 

fShe shook her head, half sorrowfully, and 


60 


GERALD FITZGERALD. 


eaid, “Genius is the gift of one, or two, or 
three, in a whole century I” 

“Then I would be a soldier,” cried the boy ; 
“I would shed my blood for a good cause. A 
ttout heart and a strong arm are not rare gifts, 
but they often win rare honors.” 

“ Count Alfieri has been thinking about you,” 
said she, in a tone half confidential. “ He told 
me that, if you showed a disposition for it, he’d 
place you at the University of Sienna, where 
you could follow your studies till such time as a 
career should present itself.” 

“To what do I owe this gracious interest in 
my fate, lady?” asked he eagerly. “ Is it my 
casual resemblance to the prince he was so fond 
of?” 

“So fond!” exclaimed she; then, as quick- 
ly correcting herself, she added, “No, not alto- 
gether that — though, perhaps, the likeness may 
have served you.” 

“ How kind and good of him to think of one 
BO friendless,” muttered Gerald, half aloud. 

“ Is the proposal one you would like to close 
with? tell me, frankly, Gherardi, for we are 
speaking now in all frankness.” 

‘ ‘ Mayhap I may only lose another friend if 
I said no!” said he, timidly; and then, with 
bolder accents, added, “Let me own it, Ma- 
dame, I have no taste for study, at least such 
Btudies as these ; my heart is set upon the world 
of action — I would like to win a name, no mat- 
ter how brief the time left me to enjoy it.” 

“ Shall I tell you my plan — ” 

“ Yours r' broke he in. “Surely you, too, 
have not deigned to remember me.” 

“Yes; the Count interested me strongly in 
you ; this morning we talked of little else at 
breakfast, and up to the moment we overtook 
you at the gate. His generous ardor in your 
behalf filled me with a like zeal ; and we dis- 
cussed together many a plan for your future ; 
and mine was, that you should enter the serv- 
ice of the King — ” 

“What King?” 

“What other than the King of France, boy; 
the heir of St. Louis.” 

“He befriended the cause of Charles Ed- 
ward, did he not ?” asked Gerald, eagerly. 

“Yes,” said she, smiling at the ardor with 
which he asked the question. ' “Do you feel 
deep interest in the fortunes of that Prince ?” 

The youth clasped his hands together and 
pressed them to his heart, without a word. 

“ Your fiimily, perhaps, supported that cause?” 

“They did, lady. When I was an infant, I 
prayed for its success ; as I grew older, I learn- 
ed to sorrow for its failure.” 

There was something so true and so natural 
in the youth’s expression as he spoke, that the 
Marquise was touched by it, and turned away 
her head to conceal her emotion. 

“ The game is not played out yet, boy ;” said 
she, at last, “there are great men, and wise 
ones too, who say that the condition of Europe 
— the peace of the world — requires the recogni- 
tion of rights so just as those of the Stuarts. 


They see, too, that in the denial of these claims 
the Church is wounded, and the triumph of a 
dangerous heresy proclaimed. Who can say 
at what moment it may be the policy of the 
Continent to renew the struggle ?” 

“Oh, speak on, lady: tell me more of what 
fills my heart with highest hope,” exclaimed he, 
rapturously. “Do not, I beseech you, look on 
me as the poor stroller, the thing of tinsel and 
spangles, but as one in whose veins generous 
blood is running. I am a Geraldine, and the 
Geraldines are all noble.” 

, The sudden change in the youth’s aspect, the 
rich full tones of his voice, as gaining courage 
with each word, he asserted his claim to con- 
sideration, seemed to have produced the effect 
upon the Marquise, who pondered for some time 
without speaking. 

“Mayhap, lady, I have offended you by this 
rash presumption,” said Gerald, as he watched 
her downcast eyes and steadfast expression; 
“but forgive me, as one so little skilled in life, 
that he mistakes gentle forbearance for an in- 
terest in his fortunes.” 

“ But I am interested in you, Gherardi; I do 
wish to befriend you ; let me hear about your 
kith. Who are these Geraldines you speak of?” 

“ I know not, lady,” said he, abashed ; “ but 
from my childhood I was ever taught to believe 
that, wherever my name was spoken, men 
would acknowledge me as noble.” 

“And from whom can we learn these things 
more accurately ; have you friends or relations 
to w'hom we could write?” 

Just as she spoke, the head of the cavalcade 
passed beneath a deep gateway into tlye court 
of an ancient palace, and the echoing sounds of 
the horses’ feet soon drowned the voices of the 
speakers. “ This is ‘ Cammerotto,’ an old villa 
of the Medici,” whispered the Marquise. “We 
have come to see the frescoes ; they are by Pe- 
rugino, and of great repute.” 

The party descended, and entering the villa, 
wandered away in groups through the rooms. 
It was one of those spacious edifices which were 
types of mediaeval life, lofty, splendid, but com- 
fortless. Dropping behind the well-dressed 
train as they passed on, Gerald strayed alone 
and at will through the palace, and at last found 
himself in a small chamber, whose one window 
looked out on a deep and lonely valley. The 
hills, which formed the boundaries, were arid, 
stony, and treeless, but tinted with those gor- 
geous colors, which, in Italian landscape, com- 
pensate in some sort for the hues of verdure ; 
and every angle and eminence on them were 
marked out with that peculiar distinctness which 
objects assume in this pure atmosphere. The 
full blaze of a noon-day sun lit up the scene, 
where not a trace of human habitation, nor a 
track of man’s culture, could be seen for 
miles. 

“My own road in life should lie along that 
glen,” said Gerald, dreamil}', as he leaned out of 
the window and gazed on the silent landscape, 
and soon dropped into a deep reverie, when 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


past, present, and future were all blended to- 
gether. The unbroken stillness of the spot, the 
calm tranquillity of the scene steeped his spirit 
in a sort of dreamy lethargy, scarcely beyond 
the verge of sleep itself. To his half-waking 
state his restless night contrilyited ; and hour 
by hour went over unconsciously, now, mutter- 
ing verses of his old convent hymns — now, 
snatches of wild peasant legends, his mind lost 
itself in close woven fancies. 

Whether the solitary tract of country before 
him was a reality or a mere dream-land he 
knew not. It needed an effort to resume con- 
sciousness, and that effort he could not make ; 
long fasting, too, lent its influence to increase 
this state, and his brain balanced between fact 
and imagination weariedly and hopelessly. At 
moments he fancied himself in some palace of 
his ancestors, dwelling in a high but solitary 
state ; then would he suddenly imagine that ho 
was a prisoner, confined for some great treason 
— he had taken arms against his country — he 
had adhered to a cause, he knew not what or 
whose, but it was adjudged treasonable. Then, 
again, it was a monastery, and he Avas a novice, 
waiting and studying to assume his vows ; and 
his heart struggled between a vague craving for 
active life and a strange longing for the death- 
like quiet of the cloister. 

From these warring fancies he started sud- 
denly, and, passing his hand across his forehead, 
tried to recall himself to reason. “Where am 
I ?” exclaimed he, and the A'ery sound of his 
own voice, echoed by the deep vaulted room, 
almost affrighted him. “How came I here?” 
muttered he, hoping to extricate himself from 
the realm of fancy by the utterance of the words. 
He hastened to the door, but the handle was 
broken and would not turn; he tried to burst 
it open, but it was strong and firm as the deep 
wall at either side of it ; he shouted aloud ; he 
beat loudly on the oaken panels, but, though 
the deep-arched ceiling made the noise seem 
like thunder, no an'^wer was returned to his 
call. He next turned to the window, and saAv, 
to his dismay, that it was at a great height from 
the ground, which was a flagged terrace be- 
neath. He yelled and cried from the very top 
of his voice ; he waved his cap, hoping that 
some one at a distance might catch the signal; 
but all in vain. Wearied at last by all his at- 
tempts to attract notice, he sat moodily down 
to think over his position and devise Avhat was 
to be done. Wild thoughts flashed at times 
across him — that this was some deep-laid scheme 
to entrap him — that he had been enticed here, 
that he might meet his death without marks of 
violence ; that, somehow, his was a life of con- 
sequence enough to provoke a crime. The 
Prince that he resembled had some share in it 
— or Marietta had vowed a vengeance — or the 
Jesuit Fathers had sent an emissary to dispatch 
him. What were not the wild and terrible 
fancies that filled his mind — all that he had 
read of cruel torturings — ^years’ long suffering — 
lives passed in dreary dungeons, floated mistily 


61 

before him, till reason at last gave way, and he 
lost himself in these sad imaginings. 

The ringing of a church-bell, faint and far 
away as it sounded, recalled him from his dream- 
ings, and he remembered it Avas “ the Angelus,” 
when long ago he used to fall into line, and 
Avalk along to the chapel of the college. “ That, 
too, was imprisonment,” thought he, but how 
gladly would he have welcomed it noAv! He 
leaned from the Avindow to try and make out 
Avhence the sounds came, but he could not find 
the spot. He fancied he could detect some- 
thing moving up the hill side ; but a Ioav olive 
scrub shaded the path, and it was only as the 
branches stirred that he conjectured some one 
Avas passing underneath. The copse, however, 
extended but a short Avay, and Gerald gazed 
wistfully to see if any thing should emerge from 
Avhere it finished. His anxiety Avas intense as he 
waited ; a feA’erish impatience thrilled through 
him, and he strained his eyes till they ached Avith 
stretching. At last, a long shadoAv Avas pro- 
jected on the road; it was broken, irregular, 
and straggling. It must be more than one — 
— several — a procession perhaps ; and yet not 
that, there Avas no uniformity in it. He leaned 
out as far as he could venture. It AA'as coming. 
Yes, there it Avas ! A donkey, Avith heaA-y pan- 
niers at his side, driven by an old man ; a 
Avoman folloAved, and after her a girl’s figure. 
Yes, he kneAv them and her noAv ! It was the 
Babbo! and there was Marietta herself, with 
bent-doAvn head, creeping sadly along, her arms 
crossed upon her breast; her whole air un- 
speakably sad and melancholy. With a wild 
scream Gerald called to them to turn back, that 
he, their companion, their comrade, Avas a. cap- 
tiA^e. He shouted till his hoarse throat grew 
raw Avith straining, but they heard him not. 

A deep narroAv gorge lay betAveen them, with 
a brawling rivulet far beloAv, and though the 
boy shouted Avith all his might, the voice never 
reached them. There they Avalked along up 
the steep path, Avhither to, he knew not ! That 
they meant to desert him Avas, hoAvever, clear 
enough. Already in that far-aAA^ay land to 
Avhich they journeyed no part Avas assigned him. 
And Marietta! she to whom he had given his 
heart ; she Avhom he bound up with all his fu- 
ture fortunes ; she to leave him thus Avithout 
a Avord of farewell, Avithout one wish to meet 
again, Avithout one prayer for his welfare ! Half 
maddened Avith grief and rage, for in his heart 
now each sentiment had a share, he sprung 
Avildly to the windoAA^, and gazed doAvnAvard 
at the terrace. Heaven knows Avhat terrible 
thoughts ebbed and floAved Avithin him as he 
looked. Life had little to attract him to it; 
his heart was well-nigh broken ; a reckless in- 
difference Avas momentarily gaining on him; 
and he crept farther and farther out upon the 
window-sill till he seemed almost to hang over 
the depth beneath him. He wanted to remem- 
ber a prayer, to recall some Avords of a litany he 
had often recited ; but in his troubled brain, 
where confusion reigned supreme, no memory 


62 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


could prevail ; thoughts came and went, clash- 
ing, mingling, conflicting, like the storm-tossed 
sea in a dark night; and already a stupid and 
fatalist indifference dulled his senses, and one 
only desire struggled with him — a wish for rest ! 
Once more, and with an effort, he raised his 
eyes toward the mountain side. The little pro- 
cession was still ascending, and nigh the top. 
At a short distance behind, however, he could 
see Marietta standing and looking apparently 
toward Florence. Was it that slie was thus 
taking a last farew’ell of him, muttering, among 
some broken words of affection, some blessing 
upon him ! A sudden thrill of joy — it was 
hope — darted through him as he gazed ; and 
now bending over he perceived that the steep 
wall beneath the window was broken by many 
a projection and architrave, the massive pedi- 
ment of a large window projecting far, about 
six feet from where he sat. Could he gain 
this he might descend by the column which 
supported it, and reach a great belt of stone- 
work that ran about fifteen feet from the ground, 
and whence he might safely venture to drop. 
If there was peril to life in every step of this 
dangerous exploit, there was, in the event of 
success, a meeting once more with Marietta ; a 
meeting never to part again. Whatever the 
reasons for having deserted him he was de- 
termined to overbear. Some one must have 
calumniated him : he would meet the slander. 
Marietta herself w’ould do him justice ; he would 
soon show her that the passing vision of ambi- 
tion had no hold upon his heart ; that he only 
cared for her, wished for nothing beyond their 
own wayward life. As he thus reasoned, he 
tore his mantle into long strips, which he twist- 
ed and knotted together, testing its strength, 
till assured that it Avould bear his weight. He 
then fastened one end to the window-bars, and 
grasping the cord in both hands, he prepared to 
descend. Could he but gain the pediment in 
this wise, the rest of the descent would not be 
difficult. 

With one fervent prayer to her whose pro- 
tection he had learned to implore from very in- 
fancy, he glided softly from the window-sill and 
began the descent. For a second or tw'o did.he 
grasp the stone ledge with both hands; as if 
fearing to loose his hold ; but at length, freeing 
one hand and then the other, he gave himself 
up to the cord. Scarcely had his full weight 
straightened the rope than the frail texture be- 
gan to give w’ay ; a low sound, as of the fibres 
te.aring, met his ear ; and just as his feet touch- 
ed the pediment, the rope snapped in two, and 
the shock throwing him off his balance, he 
swayed forward. One inch more and his fate 
was certain ; but his body recovered its equi- 
poise and he came back to the wall, where he 
stood still, motionless, and paralyzed with ter- 
ror. The ledge on which he stood, something 
less than two feet in width, was slightly sloped 
from the wall, and about forty feet from the 
ground. To crouch down upon this now and 
reach the column which supported it w'as his 


next task, nor was it till after a long struggle 
with himself that he could once again peril life 
by such an attempt. 

By immense caution he succeeded in so bend- 
ing down that he at last gained a sitting position 
on the ledge, and then, with his face to the wall, 
he glided over the pediment and grasped one of 
the columns. Slipping along this, he arrived 
at the window-sill, from which the drop to the 
ground was all that now remained. Strange 
was it, that this latter and easier part of all the 
danger affrighted him more than all he had gone 
through. It was as if his overtasked courage 
was exhausted ; as though the daring energy 
had no more supplies to draw upon ; for there 
he sat, hopelessly gazing at the ground beneath, 
unable to summon resolution to attempt it. 

The brief season between day and dark, the 
flickering moments of half-light passed away, 
and a night, calm and starlit, spread over the 
scene. Except the wdld and plaintive cry of an 
owl, from an ivy-clad turret above him, not a 
sound broke the stillness, and there Gerald sat, 
stunned and scarce conscious. As darkness 
closed about him, and he could no longer meas- 
ure the distance to the ground beneath, the peril 
of his position became more appalling, and he 
felt like one who must await the moment of an. 
inevitable and dreadful fate. Already a sense 
of w'eariness warned him that at the slightest 
stir he might lose his balance, and then what a 
fate — mutilation perhaps, worse than any death. 
If he could maintain his present position till day 
broke, it was certain he must be rescued. Soli- 
tary as Avas the spot, some one would surely pass 
and see him ; but, then, if overcome by fatigue, 
sleep should seize him — even now a dreary las- 
situde swept over him ; oftentimes his eyes would 
close, and fancies flit across him, that boded 
the approacli of slumber. Tortured beyond en- 
durance Ijy this long conflict with his fears, he 
resolved, come what might, to try his fate, and, 
with a shrill cry for mercy upon his soul, he 
dropped from the ledge. 

When the day broke he was there beneath 
the window, his forehead bleeding and his ankle 
broken. He had tried to move, but could not, 
and he waited calmly what fate might befall him. 
Yes, he was now calm and self-confident. The 
season of struggle was over ; the period of sound 
thought and reflection had begun. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE PLAN. 

When one looks back upon the story of his 
life, he is sure to be struck by the reflection, 
that its uneventful periods, its seasons of seem- 
ing repose, were precisely those Avhich tended 
most to confirm his character. It is in solitude 
— in the long watches of a voyage at sea — in 
those watches, more painful still, of a sick bed, 
that we make up our account with ourselves, 
own to our short-comings, and sorrow over our 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


63 


faults. The mental culture that at such seasons 
we pursue, is equally certain to exercise a pow- 
erful influence on us. Out of the busy contest 
of life — removed, for the moment, from its strug- 
gles and ambitions — the soil of our hearts is, at 
it were, fresh turned, and rapidly matures the 
new-sown seed we throw upon it. How many 
date the habits of concentration, by which they 
have won success in after-life, to the thoughtful 
■hours of a convalescence. It is not merely that 
isolation and quiet have aided their minds; there 
is much more in the fact that at such times the 
heart and the brain work together. Every ap- 
peal to reason must be confirmed by a judgment 
in the higher court of the aft'ections ; and out 
of our emotions as much as out of our convic- 
tions do we bend ourselves to believe. 

How fresh and invigorated do we come forth 
from these intervals of peace ; less confident, it 
may be, of ourselves, but far more trustful of 
others — better pleased with life, and more san- 
guine of our fellow-men. And, oh, no matter 
how often we may be deceived or disappointed, 
no matter how frequently our warmest affections 
have met no requital, let us cherish this hope- 
ful spirit to the last — let us guard ourselves 
against doubting. There is no such bankruptcy 
of the heart as distrust. 

We have been led to these reflections by think- 
ing of Gerald, as he lay, w'eeks long, a sufferer 
on a sick bed. In a small room of the villa, 
kindly cared for, all his wants supplied, by the 
directions of his wealthy friends, there he lay, 
pondering over the wayward accident of his life, 
and insensibly feeding his heart with the con- 
viction, that Fate, which had never failed to be- 
friend him in difficulty, had yet some worthy 
destiny in store for him. He read unceasingly, 
and of every thing. The Marquise constantly 
sent him her books, and what now interested 
him no less, the newspapers and pamphlets of 
the time. It was the first real glimpse he had 
obtained of the actual world about him ; and 
with avidity he read of the ambitions and rival- 
ries which disturbed Europe — the pretensions 
of this State, the fears and jealousies of that. 
Stored as his mind was with poetic images, im- 
bued with a rapturous love for the glowing pic- 
tures thus presented, he yet balanced to decide 
whether the life of action was not a higher and 
nobler ambition than the wondrous dream-land 
of imagination. 

In the convent Gerald’s mind had received 
its first lessons of religion and morality. His 
sojourn at the Tana had imparted his earliest 
advances into the world of knowledge through 
books, and now his captivity at the “Cammer- 
otto” opened to him a glance of the real world, 
its stirring scenes, its deep intrigues, and all the 
incidents of that stormy sea on which men 
charter the vessels of their hope. Was it that 
he forgot Marietta? Had pain and suffering 
effaced her image ; had ambition obliterated it? 
No ; she was ever in his thoughts — the most 
beautiful and most gifted creature he had ever 
seen. If he read, it was always with the 


thought, what would she have said of it. If he 
sunk into a reverie, she was the centre round 
which his dreams revolved. Her large, mild 
eyes, her glowing cheek, her full lips, tremu- 
lous with feeling, were ever before him ; and 
what had he not given to be her companion 
again, wandering the world ; again blending all 
that was fascinating in poetic description with 
scenes wayward enough to have been conjured 
up by fancy! Why had they deserted him? 
he asked himself over and over. Had the pass- 
ing dispute with Marietta determined her to 
meet him no more ? And if so, what influence 
could she have exercised over the others to in- 
duce them to take this step? There was but 
one of whom he could hope to gain this knowl- 
edge, Alfieri himself, whose generosity had suc- 
cored them, and in the few and brief moments 
of the Poet’s visit to the villa, he had not cour- 
age to venture on the question. The Marquise 
came frequently to see him, and seemed pleased 
to talk with him, and lighten the hours of his 
solitude by engaging him in conversation. Dare 
he ask her? Could he presume to inquire, from 
one so high-born and so great, Avhat had befallen 
his humble comrades of the road ? How en- 
treat of her to trace their steps, or learn their 
plans? Had she, indeed, seen Marietta, there 
would have been no difficulty in the inquiry. 
Who could have beheld her without feeling an 
interest in her fate? Brief, however, as had 
been his intercourse with great people, he had 
already marked the tone of indolent condescen- 
sion with which they treated the lives of the 
very poor. The pity they gave them cost no 
emotion ; if they sorrowed, it was with a grief 
that had no pang. Their very generosity had 
more reference to their own sensations than to 
the feelings of those they befriended. Already, 
young as he was, did he catch a glimpse of that 
deep gulf that divides affluence from misery, 
and in the bitterness of his grief for her who 
had left him, did he exaggerate the callousness 
of the rich and the sufferings of the poor. 

There he lay, every comfort supplied him, 
all that care could bestow, or kindness remem- 
ber, around him ; and yet, why was it his grati- 
tude flowed not in a pure, unsullied stream, 
but came with uncertain gushes, fitfully, un- 
equally ; now sluggish, now turbid ; clogged 
with many a foul weed, eddying with many an 
uncertain current? Let us own it at once. The 
poison Gabriel had instilled into his heart, if 
insufficient to kill its nobler influences, was yet 
enough to render them unsound. The great les- 
son of that tempter was to “distrust;” never to 
accept a benefit in life without inquiring what 
subtle design had prompted it, what deep-laid 
scheme it might denote. “ None but a fool be- 
stows without an object,” was a maxim he had 
often heard from his lips. Not all the gener- 
osity of the boy’s nature — and it was a noble 
one — could lesson the foul venom of this teach- 
ing! To reject it seemed like decrying the 
wisdom of one who knew life in all its aspects. 
How could he, a mere boy, ignorant, untravel- 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


64 

ed, unlettered, place his knowledge of mankind 
in competition with that of one so universally 
accomplished as Gabriel? His precepts, too, 
were uttered so calmly, so dispassionately — a 
tone of regret even softened them at times, as 
though he had far rather have spoken well and 
kindly of the world, if truth would have suffer- 
ed him. And then he would insidiously add — 
“Don’t accept these opinions, but go out and 
test them for yourself. The laboratory is be- 
fore you, experiment at your will.” As if he 
had not already put corruption in the crucible, 
and defiled the vessel wherein the ore sliould 
be assayed. 

For some days Gerald had neither seen the 
Count nor the Marquise. A brief note, a few 
lines from the latter, once came to say that they 
continued to take an interest in his welfare, and 
hoped soon to see him able to move about and 
leave his room ; but that the arrival of a young 
relative from Rome, would probably prevent her 
being able to visit to the Cammerotto for some 
time. 

‘ ‘ They have grown weary of the pleasure of 
benevolence,” said Gerald, peevishly, “ they 
want some other and more rewarding excite- 
ment. The season of the Carnival is drawing 
nigh, and doubtless fetes and theatres will be 
more gratifying resources than the patronage 
of such as I am.” 

It was in a spirit resentful and rebellious 
that he arose and dressed himself. The very 
clothes he had to wear were given him — the 
stick he leaned on was an alms ; and his indig- 
nation scoffed at his mendicancy, as though it 
were a wrong against himself. 

“ After all,” said he, mockingly, “if it were 
not that I chanced to resemble some dear Prince 
or other, fhey had left me to starve. I wonder 
^Yho my prototype may be ; what w’ould he say 
if I proposed to change coats with hiin ? Should 
I have more difficulty in performing the part 
of Prince, or he that of vagabond ?” 

In resentful reflections like this, he showed 
how the seeds of Gabriel’s teaching matured 
and ripened in his heart, darkening hope, sti- 
fling even gratitude. To impute to mere caprice, 
a passing whim, the benevolence of the rich was 
a favorite theory of Gabriel ; and if, when Ger- 
ald listened first to such maxims, they made 
little or no impression upon him, now in the 
long silent hours of his solitude, they came up 
to agitate and excite him. One startling illus- 
tration Gabriel had employed, that would recur 
again and again to the boy’s mind, in spite of 
him. 

“ These benefactors,” said he, “ are like men 
who help a drowning swimmer to sustain him- 
self a little longer, they never carry him to the 
shore. Their mission is not rescue, it is only 
to prolong a struggle, to protract a fate.” 

Dark and dismal were such views of life ; 
gloomy and sad they made the heart that em- 
braced them. 

The snow' lay on the Apennines, and even on 
the low'cr hills around Florence, ere Gerald w'as 


sufiiciently recovered to move about his room. 
The great dreary house, silent and tenantless, 
was a dominion over which he wandered, at 
will, sitting hours long in contemplation of fres- 
coed w'alls and ceilings, richly carved archi- 
traves, and finely-chiseled traceries over door 
and window. Had they who reared such glori- 
ous edifices left no heirs nor successors behind 
them? Why were such splendors left to rot 
and decay? Why were patches of damp and 
mildew suffered to injure these marvelous de- 
signs? Why were the floors littered with 
carved and golden fretwork ? What new civil- 
ization had usurped the place of the old one; 
that men preferred lowly dwellings — tasteless, 
vulgar, and inconvenient — to those noble abode* 
of elegance and amplitude ? Could it possibly 
be that the change in men’s minds, the growing 
assertion of equality, had tended to suppress 
whatever too boldly indicated superiority of 
station? Ab'eady distinctions of dress were 
fading away. The embroidered “jabot,” the 
rich falling ruffle, the ample peruke, and the 
slashed and braided coat, were less and less 
often seen abroad. A simpler and more uni- 
form taste in costume began to prevail ; the in- 
signia of rank were seldom paraded in public ; 
and even the liveries of the rich displayed less 
of costliness and show than in times past. Over 
and over had Gabriel directed the youth’s at- 
tention to these signs, saying, with his own 
stern significance, 

“You will see, boy, that men will not any 
longer wait for equality, till the church-yard.” 

Was the struggle, then, really approaching? 
— were the real armies, indeed, marshaling 
their forces for the fight ? And if so, with 
which should he claim brotherhood ? His birth 
and blood inclined him to the noble, but his 
want and destitution gave him common cause 
with the miserable. 

I have to crave my reader’s forgiveness if I 
dwell somewhat tediously over the traits which, 
partly from temperament, partly from circum- 
stances, stamped themselves on Gerald’s char- 
acter. His was no perfect nature, though one 
in which the generous and the good outbalanced 
the less w’orthy. At all events, the features 
which most blemished his character, were less 
native, than impressed upon him by evil associ- 
ation and intimacy with Gabriel. The very 
poisons he believed he had rejected— influences 
he was convinced that he had spurned and 
trampled on, had generated and borne fruit in 
his heart ; and there they were, noxious weeds, 
shedding their deadly odor among the richest 
flowers of his nature. 

It was a dreary day of December, a low' lead- 
en sky, heavily charged with rain or snow, 
stretched over a landscape inexpressibly sad 
and wretched looking. The very character of 
Italian husbandry is one to add greatly to the 
rueful aspect of a day in winter — dreary fields 
of maize left to rot on the tall stalks ; scrubby 
olive-trees, in all the deformity of their leafless 
existence ; straggling vine branches, stretching 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


G.3 


from tvcc to tive. or I no”! rnvelossly about, 
all th 2 se, damp and drijjpiiig, iu a scene deso- 
late as a desert, no inhabitants, no cattle to be 
seen. 

Such was the landscape that Gerald gazed 
on from a window ; and weary with reading 
now, stood long to contemplate. 

There are moments in life when the sad as- 
pect of nature so harmonizes with the melan- 
choly of our hearts, that desolation is less pain- 
ful to look upon than smiling fields and happy 
homesteads. Gerald was now in such a humor. 
A sunny sky and a bright landscape had jarred 
discordantly upon his sjurit. 

“ How little great folk care for those seasons 
of gloom,” thought he. “ Their indoor life has 
its thousand resources of luxury and enjey.^- 
ment : their palaces stored with every appli- 
ance of comfort for them — pictures, books, 
music — all that can charm in converse, all. that 
can elevate by taste about them. What do 
they know of the trials of those who plod wea- 
rily along through mire and rain, weary, foot- 
sore, and famishing.” And Marietta rose to 
his mind, and he pictured her toiling drearily 
along, her dress draggled, her garments drip- 
ping. He thought he could mark how her 
proud look seemed to fire with indignation at 
an unworthy fate, and that a feverish spot on 
her cheek glowed passionately at the slavery 
she suffered. “And why am I not there to 
share with her these hardships?” cried he, 
aloud. Is not this a coward’s part in me to 
sit here in indolence, and worse again, in mere 
dependence ? I am able to travel ; I can, at 
least, crawl along a few miles a day ; strength 
will come by the eifort to regain it. I will aft- 
er her through the wide world till I find her. 
In her companionship alone has my heart ever 
met response, and my nature been understood.” 

A low, soft laugh interrupted these words. 
He turned, and it was the Abbe Girardon, a 
friend of the Marquise de Bautfremont’s, mIio 
always accompanied her, and acted as a sort of 
secretary in her household. There was a cer- 
tain half-mocking subtlety, a sort of fine rail- 
lery in the manner of the polished Abbe which 
Gerald always hated ; and never was he less in 
the humor to enjoy the society of one whom 
even friends called “malin.” 

“I believed I was alone, sir,” said Gerald, 
half haughtily, as the other continued to show 
his whole teeth in ridicule of the youtli’s speech. 

“It was chance gave me the honor of over- 
hearing you,” re])lied the Abbe, smiling. “I 
opened this door by mere accident, and without 
cx})ecting to find you here.” 

Gerald’s cheek grew crimson. Tlie exceed- 
ing courtesy of the other’s manner seemed to 
him a studied impertinence ; and he stared 
steadfastly at him, without knowing how to 
reply. 

“And yet,” resumed the Abbe, “it was in 
search of you I came out from Florence this 
dreary day. I had no other object, I assure 

YOU.” 

y 


“Too much honor. Monsieur,” said Gerald, 
with a haughty bend of the head; for the rail- 
lery, as he deemed it, was becoming insupport- 
able. 

“Not but the tidings I bear would reward 
me for even a rougher journey,” said the Abbe, 
courteously. “You are aware of the kind in- 
terest the Marquise de Bauffremont has ever 
taken in your fortunes. To her care and kind- 
ness you owe, indeed, all the attentions your 
long illne.ss stood in need of. Well, her only 
difficulty in obtaining a career for you was her 
inability to learn to what rank in life to ascribe 
you. You believed yourself noble, and she was 
most Avilling to accept the belief. Now, a 
mere accident has tended to confirm this as- 
sumption.” 

“Let me hear what you call this accident. 
Monsieur I’Abbe,” broke in Gerald, anxiously. 

“It was an observation made yesterday at 
dinner by Sir Horace Mann. In speaking of 
the Geraldines, and addressing Count Gherar- 
dini for confirmation, he said, ‘ The earldom of 
Desmond, which is held by a branch of the 
family, is yet the youngest title of the house.’ 
And the Count answered quickly, ‘Your Excel- 
lency is right ; we date from a long time back. 
There’s an insolent proverb in our house tliat 
says, “Meglio un Glierardini bastardo che un 
Corsini ben nato.”’ Madame de Bautfrernont 
caught at the phrase, and made him repeat it. 
In a word. Monsieur, she was but too happy to 
avail herself of what aided a foregone conclu- 
sion. She wished you to be noble, and. you 
were so.” 

“But I am noble!” cried Gerald, boldly. 
“I want no hazards like these to establish my 
station. Let them, inquire how I am enrolled 
in the college.” 

“Of what college do you speak?” asked the 
Abbe, quickly. 

“It matters not,” stammered out Gerald, in 
confusion at thus having betrayed liimself into 
a reference to his past. “None have the right 
to question me on these things.” 

“A student enrolled with his due title,” sug- 
gested the wily Abbe', “would at once stand 
indej)endent of all generous interpretation.” 

“You will learn no more from me, Monsieur 
I’Abbe,” said the youth, disdainfully. “I shall 
not seek to prove a rank from wdiich I ask to 
derive no advantage. They called me t’other 
day, at the tribunal, ‘a vagabond:’ that is the 
only title the law of Tuscany gives me.” 

The Abbe, with a tact skilled to overcome far 
greater difficulties, strove to allay the youth’s 
irritation, and smooth down the asperity which 
recent illness, as well as temperament, excited, 
and at last succeeded so far that Gerald seated 
himself at his side, and listened calmly to the 
plan which the Marquise had formed for his fu- 
ture life. At some length, and with a degree 
of address that deprived the subject of any thing 
that could alarm the jealous susceptibility of the 
boy’s nature, the Abbd related that a custom 
prevailed in certain great houses — whose alii- 


E 


66 


GEEALD FITZGERALD, “THE CHEVALIER.” 


ances with royalty favored tlie privilege — of at- ' 
tacliing to their household young cadets of noble 
families, who served in a capacity similar to that 
of courtier to the person of the king. They were 
“gentlemen of the presence,” pages or equer- 
ries, as their age or pretensions decided; and, 
in fact, from the followers of such houses as the 
de Rohan, the Noailles, the Tavannes, and the 
Bautfremont, did royalty itself recruit its per- 
sonal attendants. Monsieur de Girardon was 
too shrewd a reader of character not to perceive 
that any description of the splendors and fasci- 
nations of a life of voluptuous ease would be 
less captivating to such a youth than a picture 
of a career full of incident and adventure, and 
so he dwelt almost exclusively on all that such a 
career could offer of high ambition, the army 
being chiefly officered by the private influence 
of the great families of France. 

“You will thus,” said he, at the close of a 
clever description, “you will thus, at the very 
threshold of life, enjoy what the luckiest rarely 
attain, till later on — the choice of what road 
you’ll take. If the splendor of a court life at- 
tract you, you can be a courtier ; if the am- 
bitions of statesmanship engross your mind, you 
are sure of office ; if you aspire to military glo- 
ry, here is your shortest road to it; or if,” said 
he, with a graceful melancholy, “you can sub- 
mit yourself to be a mere guest at the banquet 
of life, and never a host — one whose place at 
the table is assigned him, not taken by right — 
such, in a word, as I am — why, then, the Abbe’s 
frock is an easy dress, and a safe passport be- 
sides.” 

With a sort of unintentional carelessness, that 
seemed frankness itself, the Abbe glided into a 
little narrative of his own early life, and how, 
with a wide choice of a career before him, he 
had, half in indolence, half in self-indulgence, 
adopted the gown. 

“ Stern thinkers call men like me mere idlers 
in the vineyard, drones in the great human hive : 
but we are not; we have our uses just as every 
other luxury ; we are to soeiety what the bou- 
quet is to the desert ; our influence on mankind 


is not the less real, that its exercise attracts lit- 
tle notice.” 

“ And what am I to be ; what to do ?” asked 
Gerald, proudly. 

“Imagine the Marquise de BaufFremont to 
be Royalty, and you are a courtier; you are of 
her household ; in attendance on her great re- 
ceptions ; you accompany her on visits of cere- 
mony— your rank securing you all the deference 
that is accorded to birth, and admission to the 
first circles in Paris.” 

“ Is not this service menial ?” asked he quick- 

ly- 

“It is not thus the world regards it. The 
Melcours, the Frontignards, the Montrouilles 
are to be found at this moment in these 
ranks.” 

“But they are recognized by these very 
names,” cried Gerald ; “but who knows me,^ or 
what title do 1 bear ?” 

“You will be the Chevalier de Fitzgerald ; 
the Marquise has influence enough at Court to 
have the title confirmed. Believe me,” added 
he, smiling blandly, “ every thing has been pro- 
vided for — all forethought taken already.” 

“But shall I be free to abandon this — serv- 
itude” (the word would out, though he hesi- 
tated to utter it) — “if I find it onerous or 
unpleasant? Am I under no obligation or 
pledge ?” 

“ None ; you are the arbiter of your own for- 
tune at any moment you wish.” 

“You smile, sir, and naturally enough, that 
one poor and friendless as I am should make 
such conditions ; but remember, my liberty is 
all my wealth, so long as I have that so long 
am I master of myself — I am free to come and 
go — I am not lost to self-esteem. 1 accept ;” 
and, so saying, he gave his hand to the Abbe, 
who pressed it cordially, in ratification of the 
compact. 

“ You will return with me to Florence, Mon- 
sieur de Chevalier,” said the Abbe, rising, and 
assuming a degree of courteous respect, which 
Gerald at once saw was to be his right for the 
future. 


BOOK II. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE “ SALLE DES GARDES.” 

In a large salon of the palace at Versailles, 
opening upon a terrace, and with a view of the 
vast forest beneath it, a number of officers were 
assembled, whose splendid uniforms and costly 
equipments proclaimed them to be of the body- 
guard of the king. They had just risen from 
table, and were either enjoying their coffee in 
easy indolence, gathered in little knots for con- 
versation, or arranging themselves into parties 
for play. 

The most casual glance at them would have 
shown what it is but fair to confess they never 
sought to conceal — that they were the pamper- 
ed favorites of their master. It was not alone 
the richness of their embroidered dress, the 
boundless extravagance that all around them 
displayed, but, more than even these, a certain 
air of haughty pretension, the carriage and 
bearing of a privileged class, proclaimed that 
they took their rank from the high charge that 
assigned them the guard of the person of the 
riovereign. 

When the power and sway of the monarchy 
suffered no check — so long as the nation was 
content to be grateful for the virtues of royalty, 
and indulgent to its faults — while yet the pres- 
tige of past reigns of splendor prevailed — the 
“ Garde du corps” were great favorites with the 
public : their handsome appearance, the grace 
of their horsemanship, their personal elegance, 
even their very waste and extravagance had its 
meed of praise from those who felt a reflected 
pride from the glittering display of the court. 
Already, however, signs of an approaching 
change evidenced themselves : a graver tone of 
reprehension was used in discussing the aban- 
doned habits of the nobility; painfully-drawn 
pictures of the poor were contrasted with the 
boundless waste of princely households ; the 
flatteries that once followed every new caprice 
of royal extravagance, and which imparted to 
the festivities of the Trianon the gorgeous col- 
ors of a romance, were now exchanged for bare 
recitals, wherein the splendor had a cold and 
chilling lustre. If the cloud were no bigger 
than a man’s hand it was charged w'ith deadli- 
est lightning. 

The lack of that deference which they had so 
long regarded as their due, made these haughty 
satraps but haughtier and more insolent in their 
manner toward the citizens. Every day saw 
the breach wider between them ; and what for- 
merly had been oppression on one side and 
yielding on the other, were now occasions of 
actual collision, wherein the proud soldier was 
not always the victor. If the newsjiajjcrs were 


strong on one side, the language of society was 
less measured on the other. Tlie whole tone of 
conversation caught its temper from the times ; 
and “the bourgeois” was ridiculed and laughed 
at unceasingly. The witty talker sought no 
other theme ; the courtly .ejiigrammatist select- 
ed no other subject ; and even royalty itself was 
made to laugh at the stage exhibitions of those 
whose loyalty had once, at least, been the bul- 
wark of the monarchy. 

In the spacious apartment we have mention- 
ed, and at a small table before an open windou', 
sat a party of three, over their wine. One was 
a tall, spare, dark-complexioned man, with 
something Spanish in his look, the Due do 
Bourguignon, a captain in the Garde ; the sec- 
ond was a handsome but over-conceited looking 
youth, of about twenty-twm or three, the Mar- 
quis de Maurepas. The third was Gerald, or 
as he was then and there called, Le Chevalier 
de Fitzgerald. Though the two latter ivere sim- 
ple soldiers, all their equipment was as costly 
as that of the officer at their side. As little was 
there any difference in their manner of address- 
ing him. Maurepas, indeed, seemed rather dis- 
posed to take the lead in conversation, and as- 
sumed a sort of authority in all he said, to which 
the Duke gave the kind of assent usually ac- 
corded to the “ talkers by privilege.” The young 
Marquis had all the easy flippancy of a prac- 
ticed narrator, and talked like one who rarely 
fell upon an unwilling audience. 

“It needs but this, Duke,” said he, after a 
very energetic burst of eloquence; “it needs 
but this and our corps will be like a regiment 
of the line.” 

“Parbleu,” said the Duke, as he stroked his 
chin with the puzzled air of a man who saw a 
difficulty, but could not imagine any means of 
escape. 

“I should like to know what your father or 
mine would have said to such pretension,” re- 
sumed the Marquis. “You remember what the 
great monareh said to Colonna, when he asked 
a place for his son. You must ask Honore if 
he has a vacancy in the kitchen ! And right, 
too. Are we to be all mixed up together? 
Are the employments of the state to be filled by 
men whose fathers were laekeys? Is France 
going to reject the traditions that have guided 
her for centuries?” 

“To what is all this apropos, Gaston?” asked 
Fitzgerald, calmly. 

“Haven’t you heard that M. Lescour has 
made interest with the King to have his son ap- 
pointed to the ‘ Garde ?’ ” 

“And who is M. Lcscour?” 

“ I’ll tell you what he is, which is more to the 
purpose ; he himself would be puzzled to say 


G3 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


lio. M. Lescour is a ‘ fermier-general’ — very ! 
rich, doubtless, but of an origin the lowest.” | 

“ And his son ?” 

“His son ! What do I know about his son ? , 
I conclude he resembles his father ; at all events, 
he can not be one of us.” 

“Pardon me if I am not able to see why,” 
said Gerald, calmly. “There is nothing in the 
station of a fermier-general that should not have 
opened to his son the approach to the very high- 
est order of education ; all that liberal means 
could bestow — ” 

“ But, mon cher, Avhat do Ave care for all that? 
We Avant good blood and good names among 
oar comrades ; Ave Avant to know that our friend- 
ships and our intimacies are Avith those whose 
fathers Avere the associates of our fathers. Ask 
the Duke here, hoAV he Avould fancy companion- 
ship Avith the descendants of the rabble. Ask 
yourself, is it from such a class you Avould select 
your bosom friends?” 

“ Grant all you say to be correct ; is not the 
King himself a good judge of those to Avhom he 
Avould intrust the guardianship of his person ?” 
interposed Gerald. “The annals of the AA'orld 
have shown that loyalty and courage are not pe- 
culiar to a class.” 

“ Amt they — parbleu ?” cried Maurepas. 
“Why, those sentiments arc Avorthy of the Rue 
Montmartre. Messieurs,” added he, rising, 
and addressing the otliers, scattered in groups 
through the room, “ congratulate yourselves 
that the enlightened opinions of the age have 
penetrated the darkness of our benighted corps. 
Here is the Chevalier de Fitzgerald enunciating 
opinions that the most advanced democracy 
Avould be proud of. ” 

The company thus addressed, rose from their 
several places and came croAvding around the 
table Avhere the three were seated. Gerald 
kncAv not very accurately the AA'ords he had just 
uttered, and turned from one face to the other 
of those around to catch something like sympa- 
thy or encouragement in this moment of trial, 
but none such aa’us there. Astonishment and 
surprise Avere, perhaps, the most favorable among 
the expressions of those Avho noAv regarded him. 

“I was telling the Due de Bourguignon of 
the danger that impended our corps,” began 
Maurepas, addressing the company generally. 
“ I was alluding to Avhat rumor has been threat- 
ening us Avith some time back, the introduction 
into the ‘ Garde’ of men of ignoble birth. I 
mentioned specifically one case, Avhich, if car- 
ried through, dissolves forever the prestige of 
that bond that has ahvays united us ; Avhen our 
comrade here interposes and tells me that the 
person of his Majesty Avill be as safe in the 
guardianship of the vile ‘ Roturier’ as in that 
of our best and purest blood. I Avill not for an 
instant dispute AA'ith him as to knoAvledge of the 
class Avhose merits he upholds” — a faint mur- 
mur, half astonishment, half reproof, arose 
throughout the room at these Avords ; but Ger- 
ald never moA’ed a muscle, but sat calm and 
still aAvaiting the conclusion of the speech. 


“I say tl.is Avitho:!t (flfense,’’ I’csumed Mau- 
repas, Avho quickly suav that lie liad not the 
sympathy of his liearers in his last sally; 
“ Avithout the slightest offense, for, in good 
truth, I haA'e no acquaintanceship outside the 
Avorld of my equals. Our comrade’s vieAVS are 
doubtless, therefore, Avider and broader ; but I 
Avill also say that these used not to be the tra- 
ditions of our corps, and that not only our duty, 
but our very existence Avas inA'oh'ed in the idea 
that Ave Avere a noble guard.” 

“Well said!” “True!” “Maurepas is 
right!” resounded through the room. 

“We are, then, agreed in this,” resumed 
Maurepas, following up his success Avith vigor ; 
“and there is only one among us aaLo deems 
that the blood of the plebeian is wanting to lend 
us chivalry and dcA'Otion.” 

“Shame! shame!” cried several together, 
and looks of disapprobation Avere noAV turned on 
Fitzgerald. 

“If I have unintentionally misrepresented 
the CheA'alier,” resumed Maurepas, “ he is here 
to correct me.” 

Gerald arose, his face crimson, the flush 
spreading over his forehead and his temples. 
There Avas a Avild energy in his glance that 
shoAved the passion that Avorked Avithin him ; 
but though his chest heaA’ed Avith high indigna- 
tion and his heart SAvelled, his tongue could not 
utter a AvOrd, and he stood there mute and con- 
founded. 

“There, there — enough of it!” exclaimed an 
old officer, Avhose venerable appearance impart- 
ed authority to his Avords. “The CheA'alier re- 
tracts, and there is an end to it.” 

“ I do not. I AvithdraAV nothing — not a syl- 
lable of Avhat I said,” cried Gerald, Avildly. 

“It is far better thus, then,” cried Maurepas, 
“let the corps decide betAA’^een us.” 

“ Decide 'AAdiat ?” exclaimed Gerald, passion- 
ately. “Monsieur de Maurepas Avould limit 
the courage and bravery of France to the num- 
ber of those Avho AA'car our uniform. / am dis- 
posed to believe that there are some hundreds 
of thousands just as valiant and just as loyal 
Avho carry less lace on their coats, and some 
eA'en — ” here he stopped confused and abashed, 
Avhen a deep voice called out, 

“And some even Avho have no coats at all. 
Is it not so you Avould say, ChcA'alier ?” 

“I accept the AA'ords as my OAvn, though I 
did not use them,” cried Gerald, boldly. 

“There is but one explanation of such opin- 
ions as these,” broke in Maurepas; “the CheA'- 
alier de Fitzgerald has been keeping other com- 
pany than ours of late.” 

Gerald rose angrily to reply, but ere he could 
utter a Avord an arm Avas slipped within his OAvn, 
and a deep voice said, 

“ Come aAvay from this — come to my quar- 
ters, Gerald, and let us talk OA’er the matter.” 
It Avas Count Dillon, the oldest captain of the 
corps, Avho spoke, and Gerald obeyed him Avith- 
out a word of remonstrance. 

“Don’t you perceKe, boy,” said the Count, 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


G9 


as soon as they reached the open air, “ that we, 
Irish, are in a position of no common difficulty 
here. They expect us to stand by an order of 
nobility that we do not belong to. To the King 
and the royal family you and I will be as loyal 
and true as the best among them ; but what do 
we care — what can we care — for the feuds be- 
tween noble and bourgeois? If this breach 
grows wider every day, it was none of our mak- 
ing ; as little docs it concern us how to repair 
it.” 

“ I never sought for admission into this 
corps,” said Gerald, angrily. “ Madame de 
Bauffremont promised me my grade in the dra- 
goons, and then I should have seen service. 
Two squadrons of the very regiment I should 
have joined are already off to America, and in- 
stead of that I am here to lounge away my life, 
less a soldier than a lackey 1” 

“Say nothing to disparage the ‘Garde,’ 
young fellow, or I shall forget we are country- 
men,” said Dillon, sternly ; and then, as if sor- 
ry for the severity of the rebuke, added, “Ilav'e 
only a little patience, and you can effect an 
exchange. It is what I have long desired mv- 
self.” 

“ You, too. Count ?” cried Gerald, eagerly. 

“Ay, boy. This costly life just suits my 
pocket as ill as its indolence agrees with my 
taste. As soldiers, we can be as good men as 
they, but neither you nor I have three hundred 
thousand livres a year, like Maurepas or No- 
ailles. We can not lose ten rouleaux of Louis 
every evening at ombre, and sleep soundly aft- 
er ; our valets do not drink Pomard at dinner, 
nor leave our service rich with two years of rob- 
bery.” 

“I never play,” said Gerald, gravely. 

“ So I remarked,” continued Dillon, “you 
lived like one whose means did not warrant 
waste, nor whose principles permitted debt.” 

By this time they had reached a small pavil- 
lion in the wood, at the door of which a sentry 
was stationed. 

“Here we are,” cried Dillon; “this is my 
quarter ; come up and see how luxuriously a 
Chef d’Escadron is lodged.” 

Nothing, indeed, could be more sim])le or less 
pretentious than the apartment into which Ger- 
ald was now ushered. The furniture was of a 
dark nut-wood, and the articles few and inex- 
pensive. 

“I know you are astonished at this humble 
home. You have heard many a story of the 
luxury and splendor of the superior officers of 
our corps, how they walk on Persian carpets and 
lounge on ottomans covered with Oriental silks. 
Well, it’s all true, Gerald ; the only exception 
is this poor quarter before you. I, too, might 
do like them. I might tell the royal commis- 
sary to furnish these rooms as luxuriously as I 
pleased. The civil list never questions or cav- 
ils — it only pays. Perhaps, wei*e I a French- 
man born, I should have little scruple about 
this ; but, like you, Fitzgerald, I am an alien, 
only a guest; no more.” 


The Count, without summoning a servant, 
produced a bottle and glasses from a small cup- 
board in the wall, and drawing a table to the 
window, whence a ^iew extended over the for- 
est, motioned to Gerald to be seated. 

“ This is not the first time words have passed 
between you and Maurepas,” said Dillon, after 
they had filled and emptied their glasses. 

“It happens too frequently,” said Gerald, 
with warmth. “From the day I bought that 
Limousin horse of his w'e have never been true 
friends.” 

“I heard as much. He thought him unrid- 
able, and you mounted him on parade, and that 
within a week.” 

“But I offered to let him have the animal 
back when I subdued him. I knew Avhat ailed 
the horse ; he wanted courage — all his supposed 
vice was only fear.” 

“You only made bad worse by reflecting on 
Maurepas’s riding,” said Dillon, smiling. 

“Par Dieu ! I never thought of that,” broke 
in Fitzgerald. 

“Then there was something occurretl at 
Court, wasn’t there?” 

“ Oh, a mere trifle. He could not dance the 
second figure in the minuet with the Princess 
de Cleves, and the Queen called me to take his 
place.” 

“Worse than the affair cf the horse, far 
worse,” muttered Dillon; “Maurepas can not 
forgive you either.” 

“ I shall assuredly not ask him, sir,” was the 
prompt rejoinder. 

“And then you laughed at his Italian, didn’t 
you? The ‘Nonce’ said that you caught him 
up in a line he had misquoted.” 

“ He asked me himself if he were right, and 
I told him he was not ; but I never laughed at 
his mistake.” 

“They said you did, and that the Princess 
de Lamballe made you repeat the story. No 
matter; it was still another item in the score 
he owes you.” 

“ I am led by these remarks of yours to sup- 
pose that you have latterly bestowed some in- 
terest in what has befallen me. Count ; am I 
justified in this belief?” 

“You have guessed aright, Fitzgerald. Thir- 
ty-eight years and seven months ago I entered 
this service, knowing less of the world than you 
do now. So little aware was I what was meant 
by a provocation, that I attributed to my own 
deficiency in the language and my ignorance of 
life what were intended as direct insults. They 
read me differently, and went so far as to de- 
liberate whether I ought not to be called on to 
leave the corps. This, at last, aroused my in- 
dolence. I fought four of them one morning, 
and three the next — two fell fatally wounded. 
I never got but this” — and he showed a deep scar 
on the wrist of his sword-arm. “ From that 
time I have had no trouble.” 

“And this is an ordeal I must pass also,” 
said Gerald, calmly. 

“I scarcely know how it is to be avoided, 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


70 

nor vet complied with. The King has declared 
so positively against dueling that he who sends 
a challenge must consent to forego his career 
in the service.” 

“But, surely, not he who only accepts a 
])rovocation.” 

“That is a difficulty none seem to have an- 
swered. Many think that all will he treated 
alike — the challenger and the challenged, and 
even the seconds. My own opinion, 1 own, is 
different.” 

“It is not impossible, then, that M. de Mau- 
repas desired to push me to demand satisfac- 
tion,” said Gerald, slowly, for the light was be- 
ginning to break upon his mind. 

Dillon nodded in silence. 

“And you saw this. Count?” 

Another nod was the reply. 

“And, doubtless, the rest also?” 

“Doubtless!” said Dillon, slowly. 

Fitzgerald leaned his head on his hand, and 
sat in deep reflection for some time. 

“This is a puzzle,” said he at last. “I 
must bo frank Avith you. Count Dillon. Mad- 
ame de Bauftremont cautioned me, on my en- 
trance into the corps, against whatever might 
inA’olve me in any quarrel. There are circum- 
stances — family circumstances — Avhich might 
provoke publicity, and be painful — so, at least, 
she said — to others, Avhose fame and happiness 
should be dearer to me than my own. Now, I 
know nothing of these. I only, know that there 
are no ties nor obligations which impose the ne- 
cessity of bearing insult. If you tell me, then, 
that Maurepas seeks a quarrel with me, that he 
is carrying a grudge against me, for weeks 
back, I will ask of you — and, as my country- 
man, you’ll not refuse me — to call on him for 
satisfaction.” 

“It can’t be helped,” said Dillon, speaking 
to himself. 

“Why should it be helped?” rejoined Ger- 
ald, overhearing him. 

“And, then, Maurepas is the very man to 
do it,” muttered the Count again. Then lift- 
ing his head suddenly, he said, “ the Marquise 
de Bauffremont is at Paris, I believe. I’ll set 
off there to-night, meanwhile do you remain 
where you are. Promise me this ; for it is, 
above all, essential that you should take no 
step till I return.” 


CHAPTER II. 

A NIGHT ON DUTY. 

ScAKCELY had the Count set out for Paris 
Avhen Gerald remembered that it was his night 
for duty, he was de service in the antechamber 
of the king, and had but time to hasten to his 
quarters and equip himself in full uniform. 
AVhen he reached the foot of the grand stair- 
case he found several dismounted dragoons, 
splashed and travel-stained — the centres of little 
4 ;roups, all eagerly questioning and listening to 


them. They liad arrived in hot haste from 
Paris, where a tremendous revolt had broken 
out. Some said the Prince of Lambesi’s regi- 
ment, the “Royal Allemand,” Avere cut to 
pieces ; others, that the military were capitu- 
lating eA’cry Avhere ; and one averred that when 
he passed the barrier the Bastille had just fall- 
en. While the A'eterans of the SAviss Guard 
and the household troops conversed in Ioav and 
anxious Avhispers together, exchanging gloomy 
forebodings of Avhat Avas to come, the tAvo or 
three courtiers Avhom curiosity had attracted to 
the spot spoke in tones of contempt and scora 
of the mob. 

“ They are shedding their blood freely, 
though, I assure you,” said a young sous-lieu- 
tenant, AA’hose arm was in a sling. “The fel- 
loAV AAdio smashed my Avrist had his face laid 
open by a sabre cut, but seemed neA'cr to heed 
it in the least.” 

“HaA’G you dispatches. Monsieur de Ser- 
rans?” asked a A'ery daintily-dressed and soft- 
voiced gentleman, Avith a Avand of office as 
chamberlain. 

“No, Monsieur le Marquis. I have a A'erbal 
message for his Majesty, from the Due de Bas- 
sompierre, and I crave an early audience.” 

“His Majesty is going to supper,” replied 
the chamberlain. “ I Avill try and obtain ad- 
mission for you to-morroAv.” 

“The Due’s orders were A'ery pressing. Mon- 
sieur le Marquis. He AA'as retiring for Avant of 
re-enforcements, but aa'ouM still hold his ground 
if his Majesty ordei’ed it.” 

“I regret it infinitely, but Avhat is to be 
done. Monsieur?” said the other, Avith a slight 
shrug of the shoulders. 

“At the hazard of spoiling his Majesty’s ap- 
petite, I’d like to see him at once. Monsieur de 
Breze,” said the officer, boldly. 

The polished courtier turned a look of half 
astonishment half rebuke on the soldier, and 
tripped up the stairs, Avithout a Avord. 

“I am ‘de seiwice,’ .sir,” AAdiispered Gerald 
to the young officer. “ Could I possibly be of 
any use to you ?” 

“I am afraid not,” replied the other, court- 
eously. “I haA'e a message to be delivered 
to his Majesty’s OAvn ear, and the ansAA'er to 
Avhieh I Avas to carry to my general. What I 
have just mentioned to M. de Breze Avas not 
of the importance of that Avith Avhich I am 
charged.” 

“And* Avill it be too late to-morroAv ?” 

“To-morrow! I ought to have been half 
Avay back toAvard Paris already. You don’t 
know that a battle is raging there, and fifty 
thousand men are engaged in deadly conflict.” 

“The King must hear of it,” said Gerald, as 
he mounted the stairs. 

Very different AA’as the scene in the splendid 
salons from that Avhich presented itself beloAv. 
Groups of richly-attired ladies and folloAvers of 
the Court Avere conversing in all the easy gayety 
their pleasant lives suggested. Of the rumors 
from the capital they made matter of jest and 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


71 


raillery ; they ridiculed the absurd pretensions 
of the popular leaders, and treated the rising as 
something too contemptible for grave remark. 
As Gerald drew nigh, he saw, or fancied he 
saw, a sort of coldness in the manner of those 
around. The conversation changed from its 
tone of light flippancy to one of more guarded 
and more commonplace meaning. It was no 
longer doubtful to him that the story of his late 
altercation had got abroad, with, not impossi- 
bly, very exaggerated accounts of the opinions 
he professed. Indeed, the remark of an old 
Marechal dii Palais caught his ear as he pass- 
ed, while the sidelong glances of the hearers 
told that it was intended for himself — “It is 
too bad to find the sentiments of the Breton 
Club from the lips of a Garde du Corps.” 

It was all that Gerald could do to restrain 
the impulse that urged him to confront the 
speaker, and ask him directly if the words were 
applied to Idvu The decorous etiquette of the 
spot, the rigid observance of all that respect 
that surrounds the vicinity of a king, checked 
his purpose, and, having satisfied himself that 
he should know the speaker again, he moved 
on. It was on the stroke of ten, the hour that 
he was to relieve the soldier on guard, a duty 
which, in the etiquette of the Garde du Corps, 
was always performed by the relief appearing 
at the proper moment, without the usual mili- 
tary ceremony of a guard. 

Alone, at last, in that vast chamber where 
he had passed many an hour of sentiners 
watch, Gerald had time to compose his 
thoughts, and calm down the passionate im- 
pulses that swayed him. He walked for above 
an hour his weary round, stopping, at times, to 
gaze on the splendid tapestries which, on the 
walls, represented certain incidents of the 
“^neid.” The faint, far-away sounds of the 
band, which performed during the supper of 
the king, occasionally met his ear, and he could 
not help contrasting the scene which they ac- 
companied with the wild and terrible incidents 
then going forward at Piiris. His mind ever 
balanced and vacillated between two opinions. 
Were they right who maintained the suprema- 
cy of the royal cause, and the inviolability of 
that princely state whose splendors were such a 
shock to misery ? Or had the grievances of the 
people a real ground — were there great wrongs 
to be redressed, cruel inequalities to be at least 
compromised ? IIow much liad he listened to 
on either side? What instincts and prejudices 
were urged for this! what strength of argu- 
ment enlisted to support that! And he, him- 
self! what a position was hi*! one of a corps 
whose very boast it was to reject all save of an- 
cient lineage. What could he adduce as his 
claim to high descent? If they questioned him 
to-morrow, how should he reply ? What meant 
his title of Chevalier ? might he not be arraign- 
ed as a pretender, a mere impostor for assuming 
it ? If the Count Dillon decided that he should 
challenge Maurepas, might not his claim to 
gentle blood be litigated ? And what a history 


should he give if asked for the story of his life ! 
From these thoughts he rambled on to others, 
scarcely less depressing ; the cause of the King, 
of the very monarchy itself. Bold as the pre- 
tensions, high as the language was of those 
about the court, the members of the royal fam- 
ily exhibited the most intense anxiety. With- 
in view of the palace windows, in that same 
week, tumultuous assemblages had taken place, 
and thousands of men pas.sed in solemn proces- 
sion to the place where the “States General” 
had appointed for their meeting. The men- 
acing gestures, the wild and passionate words, 
all so unlike what formerly had marked such 
demonstrations, were terribly significant of the 
change that had come over public opinion. 
Over and over had Gabriel predicted all this to 
him. Again and again had he impressed upon 
him that a time was coming when the hard 
evils of poverty would arouse men to ask the 
terrible question, Wliy are we in wretchedness, 
while others revel in excess? “On that day, 
and coming it is,” said he, “all the brain-spun 
theories of statecraft will be thrown aside like 
rubbish, and they alone will be listened to who 
are men of action.” Was this dark prophecy 
now drawing nigh to accomplishment? were 
these the signs of that dread consummation? 
Gabriel had told him that the insane folly and 
confidence of those about the court would be 
the greatest peril of the monarchy. “Mark 
my words,” said he, “it will be all insolence 
and contempt at first, abject terror and mean 
concession after.” Was not the conduct of De 
Breze a very type of the former? he had not 
even a word of passing courtesy for the brave 
fellow who, wounded and exhausted, stood 
there waiting like a lackey. 

Gerald was startled by the sudden opening of 
a door ; and, as he turned, he saw’ a figure which 
he speedily recognized as the brother of the 
King, or, as he w’as called in court phrase, 
“ Monsieur.” 

“ Are you Maurice dc Cour9el?” asked he, 
addressing Gerald, hastily. 

“ No, Monseigneur, I am Fitzgerald.” 

“ Where is De Courgel, can you tell me ?” 

“ He w’ent on leave this morning. Monseign- 
eur, to shoot in the forest of Soissons.” 

“ Pcste !” muttered he, angrily. “ Methinks 
you gentlemen of the Garde du Corps have lit- 
tle other idea of duty than in plotting how to 
evade it. It was De Cour^el’s night of duty, 
was it not ?” 

“ Yes, sir ; I took it in his place.” 

“ Who relieves you?” 

“The Chevalier de Monteroue, sir.” 

“You are L’Ecossais, at least they call you 
so, eh ?” 

“Yes, Monseigneur, they call me so,” said 
Gerald, flushing. 

The Prince hesitated, turned to speak, and 
then moved away again. It was evident that 
he labored under some irresolution that he could 
not master. 

Resolved not to lose an opportunity so little 


72 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


likely to recur, Gerald advanced toward him, 
and, with an air of deep respect, said, “ If I 
mi^ht dare to approach your Royal Highness on 
such a pretext, I would say that some tidings of 
deepest moment have been brought this even- 
ing by an officer from Paris, charged to deliver 
them to the King ; and that he yet waits un- 
able to see his Majesty.” 

“How — what — why has he not sent up his 
dispatches ?” 

“He had none, sir; he was the bearer of a 
verbal message from the Due de Bassompierre.” 

“Impossible, sir; none could have dared to 
assume this responsibility. Who told you this 
story ?” 

“I was present, sir, when the officer arrived 
— spoke with hiip — and heard M. de Breze say, 
‘You can, perhaps, have an audience to-mor- 
ruw.’ ” 

“ He deserves the Bastille for this,” 

“ He would have deserved it, sir, yesterday.” 

“ How do 3’ou mean, sir ?” 

“That there is no Bastille to-day. The officer 
I mentioned saw it carried by the populace as 
he left Paris ; the garrison are all cut to pieces.” 

With something like a cry of agony, half 
smothered by an effort, the Prince hurried from 
the room. 

While the clock was yet striking, the sentinel 
in relief arrived, and Gerald was released from 
duty. As he wended his way along, through 
room after room, he was struck by the air of 
silence and desertion around; nowhere were to 
be seen the groups of lounging courtiers and 
“officiers de service.” A few inferior mem- 
bers of the household rose and saluted him, and 
even they wore something ominous and sad in 
their look, as though such tidings were abroad. 

A light soft rain was falling as Gerald left 
the palace toward the pavilion, where Count 
Dillon’s quarters were established. He knew it 
was impossible that the Count could yet have 
returned from Paris, but somehow he found him- 
self repairing to the spot without well knowing 
why. 

As he drew nigh he perceived light in the 
little salon, and could distinguish the figure of 
a man wu-iting at the table ; curious to learn if 
the Count had unexpectedly turned back, Ger- 
ald opened the door and entered. The person 
at the table turned quickly about, and to Ids ut- 
ter confusion Gerald saw it Avas Monsieur. 

“ Come in, come in ; you will, perhaps, spare 
me some writing,” cried he, in an easy familiar 
tone: “you may indeed read Avhat I have just 
Avritten,” and so saying ho handed him a paper 
Avith these lines : 

“Dear Count Dillon, — Giv^e me the earli- 
est and fullest information Avith respect to a 
young countryman of yours, Fitzgerald, called 
‘ L’Ecossais.’ May avo employ him on a mis- 
sion of secrecy and importance ? It is of con- 
sequence — that is, it Avere far better — that the 
person intrusted Avith our commands Averc not 
a Frenchman — ” 


The Prince had but Avritten so much as Ger- 
ald entered, and he nOAv sat calmly Avatching 
the effect produced upon the young soldier as 
he read it. 

“ Am I to answer for myself. Monseigneur ?” 
said he, modestly. 

“It is exactly Avhat I intended,” aaus the 
calm reply. 

“ I can pledge for my fidelity and devotion, 
sir, but not for any skill or ability to execute 
your orders.” 

“They Avill require little beyond sj^eed and 
exactitude. You know Paris Avell ?” 

“ Perfectly, sir.” 

“At the Rue de Turenne there is a small 
street called L’ A Avenue aux Abois — do you knoAV 
it ? — AA’ell, the second or third house, I am not 
sure Avhich, is inhabited by a gentleman called 
the Count Mirabeau.” 

“ He Avho spoke so lately at the Assembly?” 

“The same. You Avill see him, and induce 
him to repair Avith you to St. Cloud. Haste is 
CA-ery thing. If your mission speed aa'cII, you 
can be at St. Cloud by noon to-morroAv. It is 
])Ossible that the Count may distrust your au- 
thority to make this appointment, for I dare not 
give you any thing in Avriting ; you will then 
shoAV him this ring, Avhich he Avill recognize as 
mine. Spare no entreaties to accomplish the 
object, nor, so far as you are able, permit any 
thing to thwart it. Let nothing that you see 
or hear diA'ert you from your purpose. Pay no 
attention to the eA*ents at Paris, Avhatever they 
be. You have one object — only one — that Count 
Mirabeau reach the Chateau de St. Cloud by 
the earliest moment possible, and in secrecy. 
Remember that, sir, in secrecy.” 

“ I can not Avear my uniform,” began Ger- 
ald. 

“Of course not, nor suffer any trace of poAA'- 
der to remain in your hair. I Avill send you 
clothes Avhich Avill disguise you perfectly; and, 
if questioned, you can call yourself a peasant 
on the estate of the Mirabeaus, come up from 
Provence to see the Count. You must stain 
your hands, and be particular about every de- 
tail of your behavior. There is but one thing 
more,” said he, after a moment’s reflection, “if 
Monsieur de Mirabeau refuse, if he even seek 
to defer the interview I seek for — but he Avill 
not, he dare not.” 

“Still, Monseigneur, let me be provided for 
every emergency possible — Avhat if he should re- 
fuse ?” 

“You will be armed, you Avill have your pis- 
tols — but no, no, under no circumstances,” mut- 
tered he beloAv his breath. “There will be 
then nothing for you to do, but to hasten back 
to me Avith the tidings.” Monsieur arose as he 
said these Avords, and stood in, apjiarently, deep 
thought. “I believe,” said he, at last, “that I 
have not forgotten any thing. Ah, it Avere w'ell 
to take one of the remount horses that are not 
branded — I Avill look to tliat.” 

“If the Count should be from home, am I to 
seek for him elseAvhere, sir?” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


73 


“That will depend upon your own address. 
If you are satisfied that you can defy detection. 
I leave all to yourself, Chevalier, it is a great 
and a holy cause you serve, and no words of 
mine can add to what your own heart will teach 
you. Only remember, that hours are like weeks, 
and time is every thing.” 

Gerald kissed the hand that Monsieur extend- 
ed to him ; and lighting him down the little 
stairs, saw him take his way across the Park. 

« 

\- 

CHAPTER HI. \ 

THE MISSION. 

The day had not yet dawned wdien Gerald, 
admirably disguised as a Provencal peasant, ar- 
rived at the “Avenue aux Ahois.” The night 
had been hot and sultry, and many of the win- 
dows of the houses were left open ; but from 
none save one were any lights seen to gleam. 
This one was brilliant with the glare of w^ax- 
lights ; and the sounds of merriment from with- 
in showed it was the scene of some festivity. 
Light muslin curtains filled the spaces of the 
open casements, through which, at moments, 
the shadowy traces of figures could be detected. 

While Gerald stood watching, with some cu- 
riosity, this strange contrast to the unbroken 
silence around, a rich deep voice caught his ear, 
and seemed to awaken within him some singu- 
lar memory. Where, and when, and how he 
had heard it before, he knew not ; but every ac- 
cent and every tone struck him as well known. 

“No, no, Mirabeau,” broke in another; 
“ when men thi’ow down their houses, it is not 
to rebuild them with the old material.” 

“I did not speak of throwing down,” inter- 
posed the same deep voice ; “I suggested some 
safe and easy alteration ; I Avould have the 
doors larger, for easy access — the windows 
wider, for more light.” 

“And more wood, generally, in the construc- 
tion, for easy burning, I hope,” chimed in a 
third. 

“Make your best provisions for stability: 
destruction will always be a simple task,” cried 
the deep voice. “ You talk of burning,” cried 
he, in a louder tone ; “ what do you mean to do 
when your fire goes out? materials must fail 
you at last. What, then? You will have 
heaped many a good and useful thing upon that 
pile you will live to regret the loss of. What 
will you do, besides, with those you have taught 
to dance round these bonfires ?” 

“Langeac says it is an experiment we are 
trying,” replied another; “and, for my part, I 
am satisfied to accept it as such.” 

“Nay, nay,” interposed a soft, low voice. “I 
said that untried elements in government are an 
experiment only warrantable in extreme cases ; 
just as the physician esstiys even a dangerous 
remedy when he deems his patient hopeless.” 

“But it’s your own quackeries here have 
made all the mischief,” broke in the deep voice. 


“If the sick man sink, it is yourselves have 
been the cause.” 

“ Was there ever a royal cause that had not 
its own fatal influences?” said another. 

“There is an absurd reliance on prestige, a 
trust in that phantom called Divine right, that 
blinds men against their better reason. This 
holiday faith is but a sorry creed in times of 
trouble.” 

“Far from this being the case,” said the deep 
voice, “you will not concede to kings what you 
would freely grant to your equals. You reject 
their word, you distrust their oatli, you pre- 
judge their intentions, and suspect their honor.” 

“ Why, Mirabeau, you ought to h'C at Ver- 
sailles,” said another, laughing. “The pavil- 
ion of the Queen is more your- ])lace than the 
table of the Tiers Etat.” 

“ So thinks he himself,” broke in the low 
voice. “He expects to pilot the wreck after 
we have gone off on the raft.” 

“Four o’clock,” exclaimed another, pushing 
his chair hastily back as he arose; “and here 
is D’Entraigues fast asleep these two hours.” 

“No, parbleu!” muttered a drowsy voice. 
“ I closed my eyes when the Bourdeaux was 
finished, and began to reflect on Lafayette’s 
breakfast. Isn’t this the day?” 

‘ ‘ To be sure. You are coming, Mirabeau ?” 

“ Of course, we will all be there.” 

“I must be at St. Frotin by seven o’clock,” 
said one. 

“And I have to see Marigni, at the mill of 
Montmorency, by the same hour.” 

“A duel,?”- 

“Yes, they are both Yendeans, and may kill 
each other without damage to the state.” 

“He was going to say Republic,” cried an- 
other, laughing. 

“Who talks of a republic?” interposed a 
rough voice, angrily. 

“Be calm, messieurs — all religions are to be 
respected.” 

“True, Mirabeau; but this is to proclaim 
none.” 

“Who knows? They never excavate near 
Rome but they discover some long-forgotten 
deity ! Can you or I venture to say what new 
faith may not arise out of these ashes?” 

“Let it but repudiate the law of debt and 
discountenance marriage,” said another, “and 
I am its first convert.” 

“Good-by, Mirabeau, adieu,” cried several 
together, and they were now heard descending 
the stairs together. Meanwhile, Mirabeau drew 
back the curtain, and looked out upon the 
street. 

“ Who have we got here ?” said the first who 
issued forth from the door, and saw Gerald 
standing before him. 

“What is it? who does he want?” cried 
Mirabeau, as he saw them in conversation. 

“One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, 
doubtless, a Provencal cheese and some olives 
for you.” 

“ Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear 


74 


GERALD EITZGERALD, 


uncle,” cried another ; “ the only one who ever 
knew the real goodness of your nature.” 

“Let him come up,” said Mirabeau, as he 
closed the window. 

When Gerald reached the top of the stair, lie 
saw in front of him a large, powerfully-built 
man, who, standing witli his back to the light, 
had his features in deep shadoAV. 

“You are tlie Count de Mirabeau,” began 
Gerald. 

“And you! — Avho are you?” responded he, 
quickly. 

“That you shall knoAV, when I am certain of 
Avhom I am addressing.” 

“Come in,” said the Count, and Avalked be- 
fore him into the room. He turned about just 
as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes 
ujion him, cried out, “ Good heavens ! is it pos- 
sible ? Signor Gabriel !” 

“Now for your OAvn name, my friend,” said 
Mirabeau, calmly. 

“Don’t you know me, then; don’t you re- 
member the boy you saved years ago from death 
in the Roman Maremma, Fitzgerald ?” 

“What!” said Mirabeau, in the same calm 
voice, “you Fitzgerald? I should never have 
recognized you.” 

“And are v'ou really the Count de Mira- 
beau ?” 

“ Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, is my 
name,” replied he sloAvly. “How did you find 
me out? What chance led you here ?” 

“ No chance, nor accident. I have come ex- 
pressly to see and s])eak Avith you. I am a 
Garde du Corps, and have assumed this disguise 
to gain access to you unremarked.” 

“A Garde du Corjis!” said the Count, in 
some surjnise. 

“Yes, Signor Gabriel. My life has had its 
turns of good and ill fortune since aa-^c parted — 
the best being that I sei’A’e a great prince and a 
kind master.” 

“Well said, but not over-prudent Avords to 
utter in the Fauxbourg St. Antoine,” rejoined 
the Count, smiling. “Go on.” 

“I have come Avith a message from Monsieur, 
to desire you Avill hasten immediately to St. 
Cloud, where he Avill meet you. Secrecy and 
speed are both essential, for Avhich reasons he 
intrusted me Avith a mere verbal message ; but 
to secure me your confidence he gaA^e me this 
ring.” 

Mirabeau smiled, and Avith such a scoffing 
significance, that Gerald stopped, unable to pro- 
ceed farther. 

“And then?” said Mirabeau. 

“I have no more to add. Monsieur,” said 
Gerald, haughtily. “My commission is ful- 
filled already.” 

“Take some wine ; you are heated Avith your 
long ride,” said the Count, filling out a large 
goblet, Avhile he motioned to Gerald to be 
seated. 

“Nay, sir; it is not of me there is time to 
think now. I’ray, let me have your ansAver to 
my message, for Monsieur told me, if I either 


failed to find you, or that from any casualty you 
Avere unable to repair to St. Cloud, that I should 
come back Avith all speed to apprise him ; my 
not returning being the sign that all Avent well.” 

“AllAvent Avell,” muttered Mirabeau to him- 
self. “ Hoav could it go Avorse ?” 

Gerald sat gazing in Avonderment at the mass- 
iA'e, stern features before him, calling up all 
that he could remember of their first meet- 
ing, and scarcely able, even yet, to persuade 
himself that he had been the companion of that 
great Count de Mirabeau Avhose fame filled all 
France. 

“ In the' event of my compliance, you wxre 
then to accompany me to St. Cloud?” said the 
Count, in a tone of inquiry. 

“Y'es, sir; so I understood my orders.” 

“There is mention in history of a certain Due 
de Guise — ” He stopped short, and Avalked to 
and fro for some time in silence ; then, turning 
abruptly around, he asked, “ How came it that 
you stood so high in Monsieur’s confidence that 
he selected you for this mission ?” 

“By mere accident,” said Gerald, and he re- 
counted hoAV the incident had occurred. 

“And your horse — Avhat has become of him?” 
asked the Count. 

“ He is fastened to the ring of the large porte 
cochere — the third house from this.” 

Mirabeau leaned out of the Avindow as if to 
satisfy himself that this statement Avas true. 

“Supposing, then, that I agree to your re- 
quest, Avhat means haA'e you to convey me to St, 
Cloud? — AA'hat preparations are made?” 

“None, sir. There AA’as no time for prepara- 
tion. It was as I have told you, late last night 
Avhen Monsieur gaA'e me this order. It Avas in 
the briefest of Avords.” 

“ ‘Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Maj- 
esty Avould speak Avith him,’” said the Count, 
suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his 
message. 

“No, sir. ‘Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to 
hasten to St. Cloud, Avhere I Avill meet him.’ ” 

“Hoav did you become a noble guard ?” asked 
he, quickly. “They say abroad that the diffi- 
culties to admission are great?” 

“I OAve my admission to the fiivor of Madame 
de Bauffremont, sir.” 

“A great patron, none more so. She Avould 
haA'e befriended me once,” added he, Avith an 
insolent sneer, “but that my ugliness displeased 
the Queen. Since that time, hoAvCA'er, her Maj- 
esty has condescended to accustom herself to 
these harsh traits, and CA’en smiles benignly on 
them. There is little time to criticise the fea- 
tures of your pilot, while the breakers are before 
and the rocks beside you. I Avill go, Gerald. 
GiA'e me that ring.” 

Gerald hesitated for a second ; the Prince had 
not bestOAved the ring on him, but only confided 
it to his care. 

“I Avill not compromise you, young man,” 
said Mirabeau, gravely : “ I Avill simply inclose 
that ring in a letter Avhich you shall see, when 
I have Avritten it,” and Avithout more, he sat 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


75 


down to a table, and in a rapid hand dashed 
oif some lines, which he threw across to Gerald 
to read. They ran thus : 

“Dear Friend and Nephew, — I am sum- 
moned to a meeting at St. Cloud, by the owner 
of the ring, which I inclose. If I do not return 
to Paris by noon on Saturday, it is because ill 
has befallen yours, 

“ Gabriel Requetti, Count de Mirabeau. 

“■To Mons. du Saillaut, Rue D’Ascour, ITO. 

“Friday, 3 A.M.” 

“There is the ring,” said Gerald, as he took 
it from his finger. 

Mirabeau sealed the note, inclosing it in a 
strong envelope, and placing it on the table 
among other letters, ready sealed and addressed. 

“You wdll carry this letter to its address, Ger- 
ald, and you Avill remain there till — till my re- 
turn.” 

“I understand,” said Gerald, “I am a host- 
age.” ^ 

“ You a hostage for me," cried the other, 
haughtily. “Do you fancy, young man, tliat 
the wdiole corps you belong to could requite the 
loss of Gabriel Requetti ? Would the Court — 
would the Assembly — would France accept such 
a price? Go, sir, and tell Monsieur du Saillant 
that if any evil befall his uncle, to make use of 
you as the clue to trace it, and be sure that you 
discharge this trust w'ell.” 

“And if I refuse tliis mission.” 

“If you refuse, 3’'Ou shall bear back to Mon- 
seigneur the reasons for which I have not obey- 
ed his commands,” said Mirabeau, coldly. “Me- 
thought you remembered me better. I had fan- 
cied you knew me as one who had such confi- 
dence in himself, that he believed his own coun- 
sels the wdsest, and who never turned from 
them. There is the letter — yes or no.” 

“Yes — I will take it.” 

“I will, with your leave, avail myself of your 
horse till I pass the barrier. You can mean- 
while take some rest here. You will be early 
enough wdth Du Saillaut, by eight o’clock,” and 
with this the Count withdrew into a room ad- 
joining to complete his preparations for the road. 
While thus occupied, he left the door partly open, 
and continued to converse with Gerald. Ask- 
ing him various questions as to what had befiill- 
cn him after having quitted the Tana, and ea- 
gerly entering into the strange vicissitudes of 
his life as a stroller. 

“I met your Poet, I think it was at Milan. 
We w'ere rivals at the time, and I the victor. A 
double insult to him, since he hated France 
and Frenchman,” said the Count, carelessly. 
“There was a story of his having cut the fin- 
gers of his right hand to the bone wdth a razor, 
to prevent his assassinating me. What strange 
stuff your men of imagination are made of — or- 
dinary good sense had reserved the razor for the 
enemy.” 

“His is a great and noble nature,” exclaim- 
ed Gerald, enthusiastically. 

“ So much the better, then, is it exercised 


upon fiction : real events and real men are sore 
tests to such temperaments. There, I am ready 
now ; one glass to our next meeting, and good- 
by.” 

With a hearty shake hands they parted ; and 
as Gerald looked from the window, he saw the 
Count ride slowly down the street ; after which 
he threw himself upon a couch and slept soundly'. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A SALON “ UNDER THE MONARCHY.” 

Long after the events which heralded the 
great Revolution in France had assumed pro- 
portions of ominous magnitude, after even great 
reverses to the cause of monarchy, the nobles, 
whether from motives of hardihood, or from 
downright ignorance of the peril, continued to 
display in their equipages, their mode of living, 
and their costly retinues, an amount of splendor 
terribly in contras! with the privations of the 
people. 

Many of the old families deemed it a point 
of honor to abate nothing of the haughty pre- 
tensions they had exhibited for centuries ; and 
treating the wide-spread discontent as a mere 
passing irritation, they scoffed at the fears of 
those who would regard it as of any moment. 
Indeed, to their ej^es, the only danger lay in the 
weak, submissive policy of the Court — a line of 
action based on the gentle and tender qualities 
of the King’s own nature — which made him pre- 
fer an injury to his own influence, to even the 
slightest attack on those who assailed him. 
Truthfully or not, it is somewhat hard to say, a 
certain section of the nobles asserted that the 
Queen was very differently minded ; that she 
not only took a just measure of the difficulty, 
but saw how it was to be met and combated. 
Far from any paltering with the men of the 
movement, it was alleged that she would at 
once have counseled force, and, throwing the 
weight of the royal cause upon the loyalty of 
the army, have risked the issue without a fear. 
Around Marie Antoinette were, therefore, group- 
ed those who took the highest ground in the 
cause of monarchy, and who resisted almost the 
bare thought of what savored of compromise or 
concession. 

Among those who were conspicuous for ad- 
herence to these opinions, Avas the Marquise de 
Bauffremont. To high rank — a large fortune 
— no inconsiderable share of court favor — she 
added a passion for every thing like political 
intrigue. She was one of a school — of which 
sotne disciples have been seen in our own da}’ — 
w’ho deem that there are questions of statecraft 
too fine and too delicate for the rough handling 
of men, and where the finer touch of woman is 
essentially needed. So far as matters of policy 
are moulded by the tempers of those who treat 
them, and so far as it is of moment to appreciate 
finer traits of character — to trace their origin, 
their leanings and their sympathies — there is 


7G GERALD FITZGERALD, 


Tio doiil)t that the quicker and more subtle in- 
stincts of a woman have an immense advantage 
over the less painstaking and less minute habits 
of a manly mind. If the Marquise did not in- 
augurate this school, she gave a great develop- 
ment to its principles, and, assuredly, she prac- 
ticed her art at a ])erio 1 when its resources were 
to be submitted to the severe, t of all tests. Her 
spacious “liotel,” in the “1 lace Louis Quinze,” 
was the centre of all those who assumed to be 
the last bulwark of the monarchy, and there 
might be found the Rochejaquelins, the Noailles, 
the Tavannes, the Valmys, and a host of others 
not less distinguished, while the ministers and 
envoys of various foreign courts resorted to these 
salons as the most authentic source of news to 
be transmitted to their governments. Partly 
from predilection, partly from that policy which 
affected to desjuse ])opular dictation, these re- 
ceptions were conducted with considerable dis- 
play and ostentation, and all that costly luxury 
and expense could impart lent its aid to give 
them an air of almost princely state. For a 
while there was a i)retense of treating the pass- 
ing events as incidents too slight and too vulgar 
for notice, but after a time this affectation gave 
vvay to another scarcely less absurd, of alluding 
to them in a tone of scoff' and derision, ridicul- 
ing those who were their chief actors, and actu- 
ally making them subjects of witty pasquinade 
and caricature. As each new actor on the pop- 
ular scene appeared, he was certain to be the 
mark of their insulting comments ; and traits 
of low origin, and vulgarity of manner, were 
dwelt on with a significance that showed how 
contemptuously they regarded all whose condi- 
tion was beneath their own. How little did 
they suspect, as they mocked Rabaud St. Eti- 
enne, Petion, and Robespierre, that this “ill- 
dressed and ill-mannered crew” — these “ noLsy 
screamers of vapid nonsense” — these “men of 
sinister aspect and ignoble look,” would one day 
become the scourge of their order, and the mas- 
ters of France ! So far was this thought from 
all their speculation, that their indignation 
knew no bounds in discussing those who admit- 
ted this “ Canaille” to any thing like considera- 
tion ; and thus the Bishop of Autun and Lafay- 
ette were the constant subjects of sarcasm and 
attack. 

“What do they want, Madame la Marquise !” 
exclaimed the old Marquis de Ribaupierre, as 
he stood, one evening, the centre of a group 
eagerly discussing the views and objects of these 
innovators. “I ask, what do they want? It 
can not be the destruction of the ‘ noblesse,’ for 
they are noble. It can not be the extinction of 
property, for they are rich. It can not be — 
surely it can not be — that they believe the mon- 
archy would be more faithfully guarded by a 
rabble than by the best chivalry of France. If 
Monseigneur Maurice Talleyrand were here now, 
I would simply ask him — ” 

The door opened as he uttered these words, 
and a servant, in a loud voice, announced, 
“Monseigneur the Bishop of Autun.” 


Small of stature and lame, there was yet in 
the massive head, the broad full brow, and the 
large orbits of the eyes, a certain command and 
dignitv that marked him for no ordinai v man, 
and, though the suddenness of his entrance at 
this moment had created a sensation, half pain- 
ful, half ludicrous, there was a calm self-posses- 
sion in his manner, as he advanced to kiss the 
hand of the Marquise, that quickly changed the 
feeling for one of deference and resj^ect. 

“I was fortunate enough to be the subject of 
discussion as I came into the room — will my 
esteemed friend the Marquis de Ribaupierre in- 
form me to what I owe this honor?” 

“Rather let me become the interpreter,” 
broke in the Marquise, who saw the speechless 
misery that now covered the old Marquis’s 
countenance. “Distressed at the length of 
time that had elapsed since we saw yoir among 
us here — grieved at what we could not but im- 
aoine a desertion of us — pained, above all. Mon- 
seigneur, by indications that you had sought and 
found friends in other ranks than those of your 
own high station — ” 

“A bishop, Madame la Marquise — forgive 
my interruption — a 1 ishop only knows mankind 
as his brethren.” There was a malignant 
twinkle in his eye as he spoke, that depiived 
the sentiment of all its charitable meaning. 

“Fortune has been very unkind to you in 
certain members of 3 ’our ffimily, Monseigneur,” 
said the Count do Noailles, tartly. 

“Younger branches, somewhat ill-cared for, 
and neglected,” said Talleyrand, drvl}'. 

“Nay, Monseigneur, your Christian charity 
goes too far and too fast,” said De Noailles. 
“ Our lackeys were never called ‘ our freres ca- 
dets,’ before.” 

“What a charming dress, Madame de Lan- 
geac,” said the bishop, touching a fold of the 
rich silk with a veneration he might have be- 
stowed on a sacred relic. 

“ The favorite color of the Queen, IMon seign- 
eur,” said she, pointedly. 

“Lilac is the emblem of hope; her Majesty 
is right to adopt it,” was the quick resj onse. 

“Is that like Monsieur de Mirabeau, Mon- 
seigneur,” said the Due de Valmy, as he handed 
a coarse engraving to the bishop. 

“ There is a certain resemblance, unquestion- 
ably. It is about as like him — as — as — what 
shall I say — as the general estimate of the man 
is to the vast resources of his immense intelli- 
gence ! ” 

“Immense intelligence !” exclaimed the Mar- 
quise de Bauffremont. “ I could more readily 
believe in his immense profligacy.” 

“You might assent to both, Madame, and 
yet make no great mistake ; save only that the 
one is passing away, the other coming,” said 
Talleyrand, courteously. 

“Which is the rising — which the setting 
sun. Monseigneur?” said De Valmy. 

“I sincerely trust it may not shock this dis- 
tinguished company if I say that it is the dawn 
of intellect, and the last night of incapacitv, 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


we are now witnessing. You have heard that 
this gentleman has seen the king.” 

“Mirabeau been received by his Majesty!” 
“ Mirabeau admitted to the presence !” exclaim- 
ed three or four in tones of utter incredulity. 

“I can be positive as to the fact,” resumed 
the Bishop. “I can be even more — I can tell 
this honoru])le company what passed at the in- 
terview. It was, then, last night — (thank you, 
IMonsieur de Ditc, I accept your chair since it 
allows me a more convenient spot to speak 
from) — it was last night, at a late hour, that a 
messenger arrived at the Avenue aux Abois 
with an order — I suppose it is etiquette I should 
call it order — for Monsieur de Mirabeau to hast- 
en to St. Cloud where the King desired to con- 
fer with him.” 

“I’ll never believe it !” cried the Marquis de 
Ribaupierre, impetuously. 

“ If I had the happiness of being confessor 
to the Marquis, I would enjoin an extension of 
faith — particularly in the times we live in,” said 
Talleyrand, with n, dry humor in his look. 
“ At all events, it is as I have the honor to ac- 
quaint you. Monsieur de Mirabeau received 
tliis message and obeyed it.” 

“ Par St. Louis, I can believe he obeyed it!” 
exclaimed the Due de Valmy. 

“And yet. Monsieur,” said the Bishop, “it 
vas not till after very grave reflection the Count 
dj Mirabeau determined to accept that same 
L/vitation. ” 

“ Ah ! Monseigneur, you would presume 
•-pon our credulity,” broke in De Valmy. 

“Far from it. Due, I cherish every crumb 
of fxith that falls from a table so scantily dress- 
ed ; but, once more, I repeat, the Count de 
i\Iirabeau weighed well the perils on either side, 
and then decided on accepting those which at- 
tached to the court.” 

“The perils w'hich attached to the court,” 
cried the Marquis de Langeac, scotfingly. 
“Monseigneur doubtless alludes to all the se- 
ductive temptations that would assail the cold, 
impassive tem])erament of his friend.” 

“My friend! I accept the phrase, and wish 
it might be mutually acknowledged. My friend 
has little to boast of on the score of impassive- 
ness, nor would the quality stand him in great 
stead just now; w'hat the King wants he ’has 
got, however.” 

“ And pray what may that be. Monseigneur?” 

“I will tell you, Monsieur; great prompti- 
tude, great eloquence, great foresight, and, bet- 
ter than all these, great contempt for a preten- 
tious class, whose vanity would lead them to 
believe that a wound to themselves must be the 
deatlj-blow to the monarchy. Now, sir, Mon- 
sieur de Mirabeau has these gifts, and, by their 
influence, he has persuaded the King to accept 
his. services — ” 

“ Oh, Monseigneur, if any one has dared to 
make you the subject of a mystification.” 

“ 1 have been the subject of many, my dear 
Marquis, and may live to be the subject of 
more,” said the Bishop, with great sauvity and 


good-humor; “but I sec I must not pi-csumj 
upon my credit with this honorable company.” 
Then changing his tone quickly, he added, 
“ Can any one give me information about a 
young Garde du Corps called Fitzgerald — Ger- 
ald Fitzgerald ?” 

“I believe I am the only one he is known 
to,” said Madame de Bautfremont. 

“As, next to the honor of offering you my 
homage, Madame la Marquise, that was the 
reason of my coming here this evening, may I 
trespass ujxon you to give me a few minutes 
alone ?” 

Madame do Bauffremont arose, and, taking 
the bishop’s arm, retired into a small room ad- 
joining, and closed the door. 

“Who is this Chevalier de Fitzgerald, Mad- 
ame,” said he abrujjtly. 

“I can give you very little insight into his 
history,” rei)lied the Marquise; “but dare I 
presume to ask how are you interested about 
him ?” 

“You shall hear, Madame la JMarquise. 
About six or eight months back, the Queen’s 
almoner, L’Abbe Jostinard, forwarded, of course 
by order of her Majesty, certain names of indi- 
viduals in the royal household to Rome, implor- 
ing, on their behalf, the benediction of the Holy 
Father — a very laudable measure, not unfre- 
quent in former reigns, but somehow lamentably 
fallen into disuse.” There was a strange, quaint 
expression in liis eye as he uttered these last 
words, which did not escape the attention of 
the Marquise. “Among these,” resumed he, 
“ there was included the Chevalier de Fitzger- 
ald. Now, Madame, you are well aware that 
His Holiness takes especial pains to know that 
the recipients of the holy favor are persons 
northy, by their lives and habits, of this pre- 
cious blessing ; while, therefore, for each of the 
others so recommended, there were friends and 
relatives in abundance to vouch, the Rochc- 
mards, the Guesclins, the Tresignes, can always 
find sufficient bail, this poor Chevalier stood 
friendless and alone, none to answer for, none 
to acknowledge him. Now, Madame, this 
might seem bad enough, but it was not all, for 
not satisfied with excluding him from the sacred 
benediction, the consulta began speculating who 
and what he might be, whence he came, and 
so on. The most absurd conjectures, the wild- 
est speculations grew out of these researches : 
some tracing him to this, others to that origin, 
but all agreeing that he belonged to that mar- 
velous order whom people are pleased to call 
adventurers. In the midst of this controversy 
distinguished names became entangled, some 
one would have said too high for the breath of 
scandal to attain — your own, Madame la Mar- 
quise — ” 

“ Mine! how mine?” cried she, eagerly. 

“A romantic story of a sojourn in a remote 
villa in the Apennines — a tale positively inter- 
esting of a youth rescued from Brigands or Bo- 
hemians, I forget which — pray assist me.” 

“Cojitinue, sir,” said the Marquise, whosa 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


78 

compressed lips and sparkling eyes denoted the 
anger she could barely control. 

“ I am a most inadequate narrator, Madame. 
In fact, I am not sure that I should have lent, 
much attention to this story at all if the Queen’s 
name and your o^Yn had not been interwoven 
with it.” 

“And how the Queen’s, sir?” cried she, 
haughtily. 

“ Ah, Madame la Marquise, ask yourself how, 
in this terrible time in which we live, the purest 
and the best are sullied by the stain of that cal- 
umny the world sows broadcast ! Is it not a 
feature of our age that none can claim privilege 
nor immunity? Popular orators have no more 
fertile theme than when showing that station, 
rank, high duties, even holy cares are all main- 
tained by creatures of mere flesh and blood, in- 
heritors of human frailties, heirs of mortal weak- 
ness. Cardinals have lived whose hearts have 
known ambition — empresses have felt even love.” 

“ Monseigneur, this is enough,” said the IMar- 
qnise, rising, and darting at him a look of 
haughty indignation. 

“Not altogether, Madame,” said he, calmly, 
motioning her to be reseated. “To-morrow, 
or next day, this scandal — for it is a scandal — 
will be the talk of Paris. Whence came this 
youth ? who is he ? how came he by his title 
of Chevalier ? will be asked in every salon, in 
every cafe, at every corner. Madame de Bauf- 
fremont’s name, and one even yet higher, will 
figure in these recitals. Sonie will suppose this, 
others suggest that, and the world — the world, 
Madame la Marquise — will believe all!” 

“My Lord Bishop,” she began, but passion 
so overwhelmed her that she could not con- 
tinue. Meanwhile, he resumed : 

“The vulgar herd who know nothing, nor 
can knoAV any thing, of the emotions, noble and 
generous, that sway high-born natures, who 
must needs measure the highest in station by 
the paltiw standards that apply to their own class, 
will easily credit that even a Marquise may 
have been interested for a youth to whom, cer- 
tainly, rumor attributes considerable merit. 
One word more, Madame ; for as this youth, 
educated, some say by no less gifted a tutor 
than Jean Jacques Rousseau — others pretend 
by the w'atchful care of Count Mirabeau him- 
self — ” 

“Whence have you derived this most ingen- 
ious tissue of falsehood. Monseigneur?” cried 
she, passionately. 

“Nay, Madame, I speak ‘from book’ now. 
The Chevalier is intimately known to Monsieur 
de Mirabeau — lived at one time in close com- 
panionship with him — and is, indeed, deeply in- 
debted to his kindness.” 

“ How glad I am. Monseigneur,’ said she, 
quickly, “At length to undeceive you.” 

A knock at the door here interrupted the Mar- 
quise. It w'as a servant with a letter from Ver- 
sailles that demanded immediate attention. 

“Here is more of it. Monseigneur, ” cried she, 
passionately. “ Her Majesty’s ears have been 


outraged by these base calumnies, and I am sum- 
moned to her presence in all haste.” 

“ I foresaw it, Madame,” said the Bishop, as 
he arose to withdraw. “I Avish you a most 
j)leasant journey, Madame la Marquise, and all 
that can render the conclusion of it agreeable.” 


CHAPTER Y. 

A SUDDEN REVERSE. 

“What is it? — what has happened?” cried 
Gerald, as he awoke suddenly from a deep sleep, 
the first he had enjoyed after some nights of 
pain. “Oh, it is you. Count Dillon,” and he 
tried to smile an apology for his abruptness. 

“Lie down again, my lad, and listen to me, 
patiently too, if you can, for I have tidings that 
might try your patience.” 

“I see you have bad news for me,” said Ger- 
ald, calmly ; “ out with it at once.” 

The other made no reply, but turned toward 
him a look of compassionate tenderness. 

“ Come, Count, uncertainty is the worst of 
penalties — what are your tidings ?” 

“Tell me, first of all, Gerald, is it true that 
you supped on Friday last at Paris with a party, 
at the house of a certain Monsieur du Saillant, 
and there met Desmoulins, Rivarol, and sever- 
al others of that party ?” 

“Yes, quite true.” 

“And they drank patriotic toasts — which 
means that they pledged bumpers in insult to 
to the court.” 

“They made cn attempt to do so, which I 
resisted. I said that I Avould not sit there and 
hear one word to disparage my sovereign or his 
cause; on which tne of them cried out, ‘And 
who are you Avho dares to prescribe to us hoAv 
we are to speak, or Avhat to toast ?’ ‘ He is wy 

friend,’ said Du Saillant, ‘and that is enough.’ 
‘Nay,’ broke in others, ‘it is not enough; Ave 
have placed our necks in a ludler, if this youth 
should turn out a sjiy of the court, or a Garde 
du Corps.’ ‘ And I am a Garde du Corps,’ said 
I. ‘Parbleu!’ said one, ‘I knoAv him Avell, 
noAV ; he is the felloAv they call the Ecossais — 
the Queen’s minion.’ With that I struck him 
across the face — the others fell upon me, and 
pressed me toAvard the AvindoAV', I believe, to 
throAv me out ; at all CA'ents there wms a scA'cre 
struggle, from Avhich I escaped, roughly handled 
and bruised, into an adjoining room. Here they 
folloAA-ed and arranged that meeting, of Avhich 
you haA'e heard.” 

“You ran him through?” 

“Yes, a bad Avound, I fear; but it Avas no 
time to measure consequences; besides, three 
others claimed to fight me.” 

“And did they ?” 

“No, the affair stands OA’er ; for Carcassone 
— that’s his name — they thought Avas dying, and 
all their care Avas turned to him. Meanwhile, I 
was bleeding tremendously, for he had cut a 
blood-vessel across in my arm.” 


“THE CHEVALIER” 


79 


“Well, and tlien — ” 

“Then I can’t nell tell yon what happened. 
I found myself in the street, with my cravat 
bound round my arm, and one man, they called 
Boulet, beside me. He said all he could to 
cheer me, bade me be of good heart, and that 
if I liked to make my fortune lie would show me 
the way. ‘Come with me,’ said he, ‘to the 
“ Trois Etudes,” declare yourself for us : you 
are well known in Paris — every one has heard 
of how the Queen likes you.’ I tried to strike 
him, but I only tore off the bandage by my effort, 
and fell all bathed in blood on the pavement.” 

“ And it was in that state you were found 
underneath the Queen’s window ?” 

“1 know no more,” said Gerald, drearily, as 
he lay back, and crossed his eyes with his hand. 
“ I have a hundred confused memories of what 
followed, but can trust none of them. I can 
recall something of a caleche driven furiously 
along, while I lay half fainting within ; some- 
thing of wine or brandy poured down my throat ; 
something of being carried in men’s arms, but 
through all these are drifting other thoughts, 
vague, incoherent, almost impossible.” 

“Is it true that the Queen, with one of her 
ladies, found you still lying in the garden when 
day broke?” 

“It may have been the Queen — I did not 
know her, ” said he, despondently. “ Now, then, 
for your tidings ?” 

“ You remember, of course, the events which 
have oecurred since your illness, that you have 
been examined by a military commission, in 
presence of two persons deputed by the ‘ States- 
General.’ ” 

“ Yes — yes, I have had two weary days of it ; 
ten minutes might have sufficed for all I was 
going to tell them.” 

“ So you really did refuse to answer the ques- 
tions asked of you ?” 

“ I refused to speak of what was intrusted to 
my honor to preserve secret.” 

“Or even to tell by whom you were so in- 
trusted ?” 

“ Of course.” 

“And you thus encountered the far worse 
peril of involving in an infamous slander the 
highest and purest name in France.” 

“ I do not understand you,” cried Gerald, 
wildly. 

“ Surely you know the drift of all this inquiry 
— you can not be ignorant that it was to assail 
her Majesty with a base scandal that you were 
placed beneath her window, and so discovered in 
the morning, at the very moment of her finding 
you there. Are you not aware that no false- 
hood is too gross nor too barefaced not to meet 
credence if she be its object ? Do not all they 
who plan the downfall of the monarchy despair 
of success while her graceful virtues adorn her 
high station ? Is not every effort of the vile fac- 
tion directed solely against her? Have you not 
witnessed how, one by one, have been abandon- 
ed all the innocent pleasures to which scandal 
attached a blame ? The Trianon deserted — the 


graceful amusements she loved so well — all given 
up. Unable to meet slander face to face, she 
has tried to make it impossible, as if one yet 
could obliterate the venomous poison of this ran- 
corous hate !” 

“ And now,” said Gerald, drawing a long 
breath, “ and now for my jiart in this infernal 
web of falsehood ?” 

“ If you refused to state wlicre you had pass- 
ed the evening — wdiy you wore a disguise — how 
you eame by your -wound — you must allow you 
furnished matter for wdiatever suspicion they de- 
sired to attach to you.” 

“They are free to believe of me what they 
may.” 

“Ay, but not to include others in the impu- 
tation.” 

“I never so much as dreamed of that!” said 
Gerald, with a weary sigh. 

“Well, boy, it is just Avhat has happened; 
not that there lives one base enough to believe 
this slander, though ten thousand are ready to 
repeat it. There, see how the Gazette de Paris 
treats it, a journal that once lield a high place 
in public favor. Kead that.” 

Gerald bent over the paper, and read, half 
aloud, the following paragraph : 

“The young officer of the Garde du Corps 
examined by the Special Commission as to the 
extraordinary circumstances under which he was 
lately discovered in the garden of her Majesty, 
having refused all explanation either as to his 
disguise, his recent wound, or any reason for his 
presence there, has been adjudged guilty under 
the following heads: First, breach of military 
duty, in absence from the Garde Avithout leave ; 
secondly, infraction of discipline, in exchanging 
his uniform.” 

“Well, Avell,” cried Gerald, “Avhat is the end 
of all this?” 

“You are dismissed the service, boy!” said 
Dillon, sternly. 

“Dismissed the service!” echoed he, in a 
broken voice. 

“ Your comrades bore you no good-will, Ger- 
ald — even that last scene in the Salle des Gardes 
had its unhappy influence on your lot. It was 
to the comment of the journalist, however, I had 
directed your attention. See there !” 

And Gerald read : 

“France will not, we assert, accept the deg- 
radation of this young officer as a sufficient ex- 
piation for what, if it means any thing at all, im- 
plies a grave insult to the Majesty of the realm. 
In the name of an outraged public we demand 
more than this. We insist on knowing how this 
youth, so devoid of friends, family, and fortune, 
became a soldier of the Guard — whence his title 
— who his patrons. To these questions, if not 
satisfactorily answered within a Aveek, Ave pur- 
pose to append such ex])lanations as mere rumor 
affords ; and Ave dare promise our readers, if not 
all the rigid accuracy of an attested document, 
some compensation in AAhat may fairly claim 


80 


GEEALD FITZGERALD. 


the interest of a very romantic story. Not ours 
the blame if our narrative comprise names of 
more exalted station than that of this fortunate 
adventurer.” 

“ Fortunate adventurer ! I am well called by 
such a title,” exclaimed he, bitterly. “And so 
I am dismi.ssed the service!” 

“The sentence was pronounced yesterda}', 
but they thought you too ill to hear it. I have, 
however, appealed against it. I have promised 
that, if re-examined — ” 

“Promise nothing for me, Count; I should 
reject the boon if they reinstated me to-morrow,” 
said Gerald, haughtily. 

“But remember, too, you must have other 
thoughts here than for yourself.” 

“ I will leave France ; I will seek my fortune 
elsewhere ; I can not live in a net-work of in- 
trigue ; I have no head for ])lots, no heart for 
subtleties. Leave me, therefore. Count, to my 
fate.” 

In broken, unconnected sentences the youth 
declined all aid or counsel. There are mo- 
ments of such misery that all the offices of 
friendship bring less comfort to the heart than 
a stern self-reliance. A rugged sense of inde- 
pendence supplies at such times both energy and 
determination. Mayhap it is in moments like 
these more of veal character, is formed than even 
years accomplish in the slower accidents of for- 
tune. 

“This journalist, at least, shall render me 
satisfaction for his words,” thought he to him- 
self. “I can not meet the whole array of these 
slanderers, but upon this one I will fix.” 

“By what mischance, Gerald, have you made 
Monsieur your enemy?” asked the Count. 

“ Monsieur my enemy !” repeated Gerald, in 
utter amazement. 

“Yes. The rumor goes, tliat when the com- 
mission returned their report to the King, his 
Majesty was mercifully inclined, and might 
have felt disposed to inflict a mere reprimand, 
or some slight arrest, when Monsieur’s persua- 
sions prevailed on him to take a severer course.” 

“I can not bring myself to credit this!” 
cried Fitzgerald. 

“It is generally believed, nay, it is doubted 
by none, and all are speculating how you came 
to incur this dislike.” 

“ Itis hard to say,” muttered Gerald, bitterly. 

“ This is for you, Fitzgerald,” said a sergeant 
of the Corps entering the room hastily. “You 
are to ap])ear on the ])aradc to-morrow, and 
hear it read at the head of your company,” and 
with the.se words he threw an open ])apcr on 
the table and withdrew. 

“ Open shame and insult — this is too much,” 
eaid Gerald. 

“You must appeal, Gerald ; I insist upon it,” 
cried Dillon. 

“No, sir. I have done with princes and 
royal guards. I could not put on their livery 
again with the sense of loyalty that once stirred 
my heart. Leave me, I pray, an hour or two 


to collect my thoughts, and grow calm again. 
Good-by for a short while.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

A cardinal’s chamber. 

We must ask of our reader to pass over both 
time and space, and accompany us, as night is 
falling, to a small chamber in the house of the 
Cardinal Caraffa at Rome, where the Cardinal 
is now seated in secret converse with a tall, 
sickly, but still handsome man, in a long robe 
of black serge, buttoned almost to his feet, and 
wearing on his head a low square cap, of the 
same coarse mateiial ; be was the Pere Masso- 
ni, superior of the College of Jesuits. 

The Cardinal had but jest returned from a 
conclave, and had not taken time to change a 
dress, whose splendor formed a strong contrast 
with the simple attire of his guest. Nor less 
remarkable was the difference between them 
personally : the Cardinal being a man of large 
and massive mould, with heavy black eyebrows 
meeting in his forehead, a large full mouth, ex- 
])ressivo alike of sensuality and resolution. The 
tones of his deep voice, full and sonorous, were 
little like the soft and dulcet accents of the 
Pere, who ever spoke in a sort of timid wdiisper, 
w ith downcast eyes, and hands clasped meekly 
on his breast. 

The Pere Massoni had been in waiting for 
nigh an hour when the Cardinal entered, his 
face flushed, and his eyes flashing with recent 
excitement; but he neither exhibited impa- 
tience at the delay, nor manifested the least at- 
tention to the hurried gestures or hastily uttered 
excuses of his princely host. 

“ It is happily the last council for the season,” 
said the Cardinal, as he seated himself in a 
deep and easy chair. “ His Holiness leaves for 
Gaeta to-morrow', the Cardinal Secretary Piom- 
bino retires to Albano during the hot weather, 
and I am free to confer with my esteemed friend 
the Pere IMassoni, and discuss deeper themes 
than the medallions in the nave of San GioAani 
di Laterano. There were to have been four- 
teen on either side last Tuesday ; on Friday, we 
came down to tw^elve ; to-day, we deemed eleven 
enough : in fact, Massoni, we are less specu- 
lative as to the future, and have left but four 
sj)accs to be filled up; but enough of this, have 
your letters arrived?” 

“Yes, your Eminence, the Priest Carroll, 
from Ireland, has brought me several, and much 
information besides of events in England.” 

“It is of France I Avant to hear,” broke in 
the Cardinal, impatiently. “It is of the man 
in the throes of death I w'ould learn tidings, not 
of him lingering in the long stages of a chronic 
maladjL Did this priest j)ass through Paris ?” 

“ He did, your Eminence ; he w^as two days 
there. Tlie feA^er of blood still rages. ’dVas 
but Monday Aveek, thirty-tAvo nobles of La Ven- 
dee Avere guillotined, and, Avorse still, eight 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


81 


priests, old and venerable men, cures of the 
several parishes. They met their death as be- 
came true sons of the holy church, declaring 
with their last breath that the sacrifice would 
bring a blessing on the faith.” 

“ So it will — they are right — truth must tri- 
umph at last, Massoni,” said the Cardinal, hur- 
riedly; “but we arc passing through a fiery 
ordeal, sparks of the same fire have been seen 
among ourselves too. Grave fears exist that 
all is not well at Viterbo.” 

“The flame must be trodden out quickly and 
completely, your Eminence; deal with traitors 
with speed, and you can treat true men witli 
justice. The Abbe Guescard, whose book on 
))rivate judgments you have seen, was buried 
this morning.” 

“I had not heard that he was ill.” 

“It was a sudden seizure, your Eminence, 
but the convulsions resisted all treatment, and 
death closed his sufferings about midnight. The 
doctrines of Diderot and Jean Jacques form but 
sorry homilies. They who preach them go to 
a heavy reckoning hereafter.” 

“ And meet with sudden deaths besides,” 
said the Cardinal, with a glance in which there 
was fully as much jollity as gloom. 

The Jesuit Father’s pale face remained calm 
and passionless as before, nor did a syllable es- 
cape from him in reply. At length the Cardi- 
nal said, “All accounts agree in one thing, the 
pestilence is spreading. At Aranguez, in Spain, 
a aecret society has been discovered, in corre- 
spondence with Desmoulins. At Leipsic a rec- 
ord for future proscription throughout Germany 
has been found, exactly fashioned after the true 
Paris model ; and even in sluggish England the 
mutterings of discontent are heard, but with 
them Ave have less sympathy — or rather we 
might say, God speed the hand that would pull 
down the heretic church.” 

“ Carroll tells me that Ireland is ripe, though 
for what, it is yet hard to pronounce. The cry 
of ‘Liberty’ in France has awakened her to the 
memory of all her hatred to England. Men of 
great ability and daring are eagerly feeding the 
fiame; the difficulty Avill be to direct its rav- 
ages Avhen once it breaks out. If the principles 
of France SAvay them, the torrent that will OA'er- 
whelm the heretic Avill also sweep aAvay the 
faith.” 

“ Much will depend upon the men Avho direct 
the movement.” 

“No, no,” said the Jesuit, “next to nothing. 
Each in his turn will be tlie victim of the event 
he seems to control. It is not the riven tree 
carried along by the current that directs the 
stream. It is to human passions and their 
working Ave must look, to see the issue out of 
these troubles. Once men emerge out of the 
storm-tossed ocean of their excesses, they strain 
their eyes to catcli some haven — some resting- 
place. Some find it in religion, some in ambi- 
tion, Avhich is the religion of this Avorld. The 
crime of France has been, that no such goal 
has ever existed. In their lust to destrov, they 
F 


have forfeited the pOAver to rebuild. As Avell 
endeavor to reanimate the cold ccrj)ses beneatli 
the guillotine, as revive that glorious monarchy. 
For men like these there is no hope — no here- 
after. IlaA'e no trust in them.” 

“But you yourself told me,” cried the Car- 
dinal, “ how vain it Avere to pledge men to the 
cause of the Church.” 

“And truly did I say so. Men Avill serA'C 
710 cause but that Avhich secures them a safe 
recompense. In France they haA*e that recom- 
pense — there is vengeance and there is pillage ; 
but both will be exhausted after a time — there 
Avill be satiety for one and starA-ation for the 
other, and then Avoe to those Avho spirited them 
on to this pursuit. The convulsion in Ireland, 
if it should come, need not have this peril ; there, 
there is a race to expel and a heresy to exter- 
minate ; in both the prospect of the future is 
implied. Let us aid this project.” 

“Ah! it is your old project lurks there,” 
cried the Cardinal; “I see a glimpse of it al- 
ready ; but Avhat a dream is the restoration of 
that house ?” 

“Nor do I mean it should be more — the 
phantom of a Stuart in the procession is all I 
ask for. By that dynasty the Church is typi- 
fied. Instead of encountering the thousand en- 
emies of a faith, avo rally to us the adherents 
of a monarchy. If avc build up this throne, he 
who sits on it is our viceroy : avc hav'e made, 
and can unmake him.” 

“ And hoAV can the Cardinal York serve thes3 
plans ?” 

“ I never intended that he should ; his gOAvn 
alone Avould exempt him, even had he — Avhich 
he has not — perlonal qualities for such a cause.” 

“ Yet Avith him the race is extinct.” 

“ Of that I am not so certain, and it is pre- 
cisely the point on Avdiich I Avant to confer Avith 
you,” so saying, the Pere drew a packet of pa- 
pers from the breast of his robe, and placed it 
on the table. “ I have there beneath my hand,” 
said he, ‘ ‘ the copy of a marriage certificate be- 
tAA^een Charles EdAvard, Prince of Wales, and 
Grace Geraldine, of Cappa Glyn, County Kil- 
dare, Ireland. It is formally draAvn up, dated, 
signed, and Avitnessed Avith due accuracy. The 
Father Ignatius, in Avhose hand the document 
is, is dead ; but there are many alh'e Avho could 
recognize his Avriting. One of the Avitnesses, 
too, is believ'ed still to be liA’ing in a remote 
part of Ireland ; I have his name and can trace 
him ; but even better than this, the Cardinal 
York admits the fact, and OAvns that he retains 
in his possession a last legacy of the Prince for 
the child born of this marriage. 

“Your Eminence smiles incredulously; but 
Avhat will you say Avhen I add that the same 
child Avas inscribed in our College, under the 
name of Gerald Fitzgerald ; was Avell knoAvn to 
my predecessor, the present Bishop of Orvieto 
— quitted the College to acquire the protection 
of the Prince, from Avhich he most unaccounta- 
bly strayed or Avas withdraAvn, and ultimately 
reached France.” 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


82 

“ Whci’c he has, doubtless, been guillotined I 
for his royal blood,” broke in the Cardinal. 

“No, your Eminence; he lives, and I have ! 
traced him. Nay, more, I have found that he 
is one in every way adapted for such an enter- 
prise as I speak of : possessed of the most he- 
roic courage, with a character fertile in re- 
sources ; all the winning graces of his father 
are united in him, with a steadfast energy that 
few of the Stuarts could ever have laid claim to. 
In a life of struggle and adversity — for he has 
never known his rank, nor has the slightest 
suspicion of his birth — he has never once de- 
scended to a single act that could impugn the 
highest station. In a word, to declare him a 
Prince to-rnovrow needs not that we should ob- 
literate his past life or conceal its vicissitudes.” 

“ Be it so as you say. Is it such pretensions 
you would oppose to the recognized and estab- 
lished monarchy of England? A youth of at 
least highly questionable legitimacy, friendless 
and penniless ; and this, too, in an age when 
thrones propped up by all that can aid their 
prestige are tottering to their fall !” 

“We want him but as the banner to rally 
around ; we need him as the standard which 
will draw Scotland to the side of Ireland, and 
both for one cause — the Church. A Prince of 
the House of Stuart is the emblem of all that 
defies the heresy when the day of trouble comes. 
It is vital that Ireland should not follow in the 
steps of France, and Christian blood be shed to 
establish the reign of the infidel ! If the pesti- 
lence that now rages in France extend through 
Europe, as many wise heads predict it will, the 
day will come that the last resting-place of our 
faith will be that small island in the west. 
Think, then, how imminent it is that we should 
give to the struggle that is approaching a guid- 
ance and direction. If the Irish insurrection 
be capable of a royalist coloring, we can take 
advantage of that feature to awaken the dor- 
mant chivalry of those who would risk nothing 
in the cause of a Republic. The old Catholic 
families of England, the Scottish chiefs, men 
who can bring into the field the fiercest parti- 
sans and the most intrepid followers ; all Ire- 
land, save that small garrison which assumes to 
subject it to English rule, will rally round a 
Stuart : and that Stuart will be in our hands to 
.'deal with — to elevate to a throne on the claim 
of his birth ; or, if need be, to proclaim an ille- 
gitimate pretender!” 

The soft, mild eyes of the Pere grew darker 
and deeper in color, and his pale cheeks flush- 
ed, while the last words came from him with an 
utterance thick and almost guttural from pas- 
sion. Nor was the Cardinal unmoved : partly 
in sympathy with the emotion of the speaker, 
partly stimulated by the great proportions of the 
scheme displayed before him, he sat, with hur- 
j'ied breathing and a heated brow, gazing stead- 
fastly at the other. 

“There are immense difficulties. Father,” he 
leegan. 

“I know them all,” broke in the Jesuit. 


I “For some I have provided, for many more I 
am still reflecting ; but still remember, that to 
I launch the project is our great care. When 
the rock is riven from its base, no man can tell 
by what course it will descend the mountain, 
over what precipice gain new force, or in what 
hollow lie spent and motionless. Let us be 
satisfied if we start the game, and leave to des- 
tiny the pursuit!” 

“Much money will be needed — ” 

“ The great families of England are rich. It 
will not require deep calculation to satisfy them 
that the cost of supporting a loyalist cause will 
be little in comparison with the consequences 
of a revolution to end in a republic ; a loan is 
ever lighter than confiscation !” 

“There is much in that if the alternative be 
well put and well understood.” 

“From what I learn,” continued the Pere, 
“men of influence and fortune will grasp ea- 
gerly at what offers any issue to the coming 
trouble, save to follow in the footsteps of France. 
The Terror there has done us good service, and 
the lesson may be still farther improved. They 
who would imitate Marat and Robespierre will 
have a short i*eign.” 

“Better they should have none !” 

“There must be the baptism of blood,” said 
the Pere, in a low but firm voice. 

“And who is to prepare the plan of this 
great campaign ? to gather together the leaders, 
to applot the several duties, to arrange details, 
conciliate interests, and reconcile rivalries. He 
must be one, doubtless, of commanding ability 
and vast resources.” 

The Pere boAved a deep and reverential assent, 

“A man of station sufficient to make his in- 
fluence felt without dispute — one whose coun- 
sel none dare gainsay.” 

Again did an humble bow give acquiescence. 

“Nor,” continued the speaker, “must it be 
from his exalted station alone that men yield 
deference to him. He must needs be one well 
versed in human nature ; who can read the heart 
in its mood of strength or weakness; a master, 
of all the secret springs that sway motives-— in 
a word, he ought to combine the Avide aucavs 
and grand conceptions of the politician, Avith 
the deep and subtle knowledge of a churchman 
— Avhere Avill you find such ? 

“ He can be found,” Avas the calm reply. “ I 
knoAV of one Avho ansAvers to each demand of 
your description.” 

“You are mistaken, Pere Massoni,” said the 
Cardinal, in a Amice slightly tremulous with 
agitation, “I knoAV his Eminence of York 
Avell, and he is ill-fitted for a charge so Amst 
and momentous.” 

“ I neAmr thought of him, sir,” Avas the prompt 
ansAver. “My eyes Avere fixed upon one scarce- 
ly his inferior in high descent, infinitely above 
him in all the qualities of mind and intellect, 
one AAdiose name in the cause Avould half insure 
success, and Avhose \'ast resources of thought 
Avould be a more precious mine than the Avealth 
of Peru.” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


83 


“ And he — who is this great and transcend- 
ent genius?” asked the Cardinal, half angrily. 

“His Eminence the Cardinal Leo Gonzales 
Caratfa!” said the Pore, as he dropped on his 
knees, and pressed his lips fervently to the oth- 
er’s liand. 

The Cardinal’s florid features flushed till they 
were crimson, and, though he tried to speak, no 
sound came from his lips. A sense of over- 
whelming astonishment, even more than grati- 
fied vanity, had mastered him, and, with a ges- 
ture of modest dissent, he raised the Pere Mas- 
«oni from the ground. 

“No, no, Massoni,” said he, in a soft, low 
tone ; “ these are the promptings of your own 
affectionate regard for me, not the fruit of that 
calm reason with which you know so well how 
to judge your fellow-men.” 

“Read these letters, then, sir,” said Massoni, 
placing a packet on the table, “ and see if my 
sentiments are not as strong in the hearts of 
others.” 

The Cardinal hesitated to open the documents 
before him ; there was a sort of modest reluc- 
tance in his manner which Massoni seemed to 
understand, for, taking up one of the letters 
himself, he glanced his eyes along the lines till 
he came to a particular passage, pointing out 
which with his finger, he read: “‘You have 
among the Cardinals, however, one fully equal 
to this great task, the Cardinal Carafhi, a man 
whose political sagacity is not surpassed in Eu- 
rope, and who, by a good fortune, rare among 
churchmen, possesses a mind capable of compre- 
hending and directing great military measures. 
I am informed that he served in Spain.’” 

“Who Avrites this?” broke in the Cardinal. 

“The writer is Prince Chaides of Hesse.” 

“A brave soldier and an honest man,” said 
the Cardinal, with evident pleasure in the Avords. 

“ This is from the Viscount de Noe,” resumed 
Massoni, opening another letter and reading : — 
‘ It is essentially the cause of the Church, and 
demands a churchman at its head. Who, then, 
so fit as he Avho may, one day or other, occupy 
the throne of St. Peter!” Here he paused as 
if having concluded. 

“The expression is A'ague, nor has it any, 
the least application to me,” said Caraffi, red- 
dening. 

“ Then hear Avliat folloAA's,” cried Pere. 
‘ Even if there Avere personal peril, Avhich there 
is not, the Cardinal Caraffa Avould not refuse us 
his aid, nor must he remain the only man in 
Europe unconscious of the great qualities Avhich 
.stamp him as our leader.’ This,” continued 
Massoni, Avith increased rapidity, “ this is from 
Sir Godefry Wharton, an English Catholic no- 
ble of great Avealth and influence. ‘From all 
that I can learn it must be Caraffa, not York, to 
lead us in this enterprise — all agree in repre- 
senting him as a man of resolute action, gifted 
Avilh every quality of statesmanship.’ Trover- 
ini Avrites thus from Venice, ‘When the day of 
restoration’ — it is of the Church he speaks — 
‘Avhen the day of restoration arrives, Ave shall 


need a man equal to the great task of recon- 
structing society, Avithout employing too osten- 
tatiously the old materials. I am assured that 
Caraffa is such a man — tell me your opinion of 
him.’ This,” resumed Massoni, holding up a 
large letter in a strange, rough, and irregular 
hand, “this is from the Marquis d’Allonville, 
secretary to the Count d’Artois. ‘ We all feel 
that if it be our fate to return it must be as fol- 
loAving in the procession of the Church. Noth- 
ing but the faith can successfully combat this 
infidelity baptized in crime. To giA'e, therefore, 
the impulse of religion to any of these move- 
ments, no matter among Avhat people, must be 
tlie first care of those avIjo look forward to bet- 
ter things. Legitimacy is the doctrine of tlie 
Gospek’ . . This is Avhat I Avas in search 

of. ‘ Ireland is Avell adapted for the experiment 
— a people of belieA^ers under the SAvay of a na- 
tion they detest, Avill eagerly grasp at what Avill 
alike establish the church they revere, and the 
nationality they coA^et. If you really haA^e a 
legitimate descendant of the Stuarts, and if he 
be one equal to the demands of the crisis, it sig- 
nifies little in what quarter of Europe the first 
essay be made, and Ave Avill throAv all our efforts 
into the scale Avith you — ahvays proAuded that '' 
you can shoAv us some great political head, some 
man of foresight and reflection, among your 
party concurring in this vicAv — such a one, for 
example, as the Cardinal Caraffa. We have 
money, men of action and daring, only longing 
for occasions to employ them, but Ave are sadly 
in Avant of such cai)acities as Caraffa represents -V 
— so at least the Prince tells me, for I haA’-e no 
personal knoAvledge of the Cardinal.’ ” 

“I am flattered by his Royal Highness’s re- 
membrance of me,” said Caraffa, proudly. 

“And this,” said Massoni, shoAving a few 
lines on a simple slip of paper, “ this came in- 
closed Avithin D’Allonville’s letter. ‘ I am Avill- 
ing to open direct relations AAuth his Eminence 
the Cardinal Caraffa, on the subjects herein dis- 
cussed. — D’Artois.’ Arc these enough, sir?” 

“More than enough to gratify a loftier pride 
than mine,” said Caraffa, Avith a flushed cheek; 
“but let us turn to a Avorthier theme. What 
is it is proposed ?” 

“The project, in one Avord, is this, to make 
the rising nOAV about to take place in Ireland, a 
royalist, and not a revolutionary moA'ement; to 
overbear the men of destruction, by the influ- 
ence of Aviser and safer guides ; to direct the 
Avild energies of revolt into the salutary chan- 
nels of a restoration ; and to build up, once more, 
in all its plenitude, the poAver of the Church.” 

“Remember, Massoni, Avhat Mirabeau said 
— and though I do not love the authority, the 
Avords are those of Avisdom. ‘Revolutions are 
not the Avork of men — they make themselves.’” 

“It is from men’s hands, hoAvever, they re- 
ceive their first impulses. It is also by a secret 
and firm alliance of men — steady to one pur- 
pose, and constant to pne idea — that revolutions 
catch their tone and color. None of us could 
expect that, in a great national struggle, there 


84 


GEKALD FITZGERALD, 


will not be meny nets to deplore — grievous 
crimes committed gratuitously — vain and use- 
less cruelties. To every great vicissitude in this 
world there is an amount of power applied, to- 
tally disproportioned to the effect produced. To 
wreck one solitary ship, a whole ocean is con- 
vulsed, and solitary shores, in far away lands, 
are storm-lashed for days. So is it in revolu- 
tions. The unchained winds of men’s passions 
sweep over a larger space than is needed. This 
must be borne. Let us remember, too, that the 
blood thus, to all seeming, gratuitously shed, 
has also its profit. Terror is a gi'eat agency of 
revolt. Many must be intimidated It is when 
people arc paralyzed by fear, that they, who are 
to reconstruct society, have time to mature their 
plans, just as the surgeon attends the moments 
of his patient’s insensibility to commence his 
operation. But above all, your Eminence, bear 
in mind, that where the object is good and great, 
a blessing goes with those who sustain it.” 

If the Cardinal bowed a submissive assent to 
this devout assertion, there was something like 
a half motion of impatience in his manner, as 
he said, “And the men who are to lead this 
movement ?” 

“The details are somewhat lengthy, your 
Eminence, but I have them here,” said Masso- 
ni, as he laid his hand on the papers before him. 

“And this is Ireland,” said Caraffa, as he 
bent over a map, and gazed on the small spot 
which represented the island. “ How little it 
looks, and how far away.” 


CIIABTER VII. 

A W’ORD OF EXPLANATION. 

By one of those embarrassments almost inev- 
itable to such a story as ours, we are obliged 
now to go back somewhat in our narrative, and 
ask our reader to transport himself with us to 
Paris, at an earlier epoch than that of our last 
chapter. With the great events which accom- 
panied the downfall of an ancient monarchy, 
the extinction of a nobility, and the wreck of 
all that once constituted society in France, we 
arc not about to deal. On the wide and storm- 
lashed ocean of life our care is but to trace one 
solitary “waif.” 

After many vicissitudes and hazards, Fitz- 
gerald succeeded in making his escape from 
France, and reaching Coblentz, where a small 
knot of devoted Royalists lived, sharing their 
little 1‘esources in common, and generously con- 
tributing every aid in their power to their poor- 
er brethren. This life, if one of painful and 
unceasing anxiety, was yet singularly devoid 
of incident. To watch the terrible course of 
that torrent that now devastated their native 
country; to see how in that resistless deluge 
all Avas submerged, throne, villa, home, and 
family ; to sit motionless on the shore, as it 
were, and survey the shipwreck, was their sad 
case. 


According to the various temperaments they 
possessed did men bear this season of proba- 
tion. To some it was like a dreary night- 
mare, a long half sleep of suffering and op- 
pression, leaving them devoid of all energy, or 
all Avill for exertion. Others felt stimulated to 
be up and doing, to write and plot, and intrigue 
with their fellow-exiles in Italy and the north 
of Germany. The very transmission of the sad 
tidings which came from Paris, became an ac- 
customed task; while some few, half resigned 
j to a ruin Avhose wide-spread limits seemed to 
I menace the Avhole of Europe, began to weave 
I plans for emigrating to a new world beyond the 
seas. Gerald halted, and deliberated to which 
■ of these two latter he Avould attach himself. If 
I the idea of a neAv colony and a neAV existence, 

I Avhere each should stamp his fate Avith his own 
I impress, had its attractions, there AA'as also 
' much that fascinated in the heroism that bound 
I men to a losing cause, and held them faithful 
and true Avhere so many fell off in defection. 
Perhaps it Avas the personal character of the 
men Avho professed these opinions ultimately 
I decided his choice, for D’Allonville, Caumar- 
j tin, and Lessieux, Avho then Ih^ed at Coblentz, 

[ gave to these sentiments all the gloAving ardor 
of a high and noble chivalry. Ivor Avas it with- 
out a certain charm for a young mind to see 
himself, as it were, a participator and agent in 
the cause of great events. I3y zeal to encoun- 
ter any difficulty, readiness to go any Avhere, 
or dare any peril, Fitzgerald had Avon the es- 
teem and confidence of men high in the exiled 
Prince’s favor. They greAV to talk with him, 
and confide in him, shoAving him private letters 
from exalted personages, and eA-^en at times to 
take his counsel in affairs AA’hich required prompt 
action. Young, actiAX, able to endure fatigue 
Avithout even inconvenience, he offered himself 
for every charge Avhere such qualities might be 
available ; and thus he traA’ersed Europe, from 
Hamburg to Italy, from the Rhine to the Vis- 
tula, bearing dispatches, or as often himself 
charged Avith ,some special communication, too 
delicate to commit to Avriting, and Avherein his 
tact AV'as intrusted Avith the details. 

At last it Avas deemed essential to have a 
number of agents in France itself— men capa- 
ble of Avatching and recording the changes of 
public opinion, Avho might note the rising dis- 
contents of the popular mind, and observe where 
they had their source. It was a rooted faith in 
the Royalist party, that sooner or later the na- 
tion Avould react against the terrible doctrines 
of the anarchists, and AA’elcome back to France 
the men whose very names and titles Avere part 
of her glory : the mistake Avas in supposing that 
the time for this reaction Avas at hand, and in 
believing that every passing shadow Avas its 
herald. 

Gerald’s personal courage, his adroitness in 
the use of disguise, his unfailing resources in 
every difficulty, pointed him out as one well 
adapted for this employ ; and he was constant- 
ly intrusted Avith secret missions to this or that 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


85 


part of France, occasions on which he as inva- 
riably distinguished himself' by his capacity. 
The very isolation in which he stood, without 
family or connections, favored him, removing 
him from the sphere of those jealousies which 
oftentimes marred and defeated the wisest plans 
of the Royalists. He Avas not a Rohan, nor a 
Courcelles — a Grammont, nor a Tavanne — 
whose family influence was one day or other to | 
be dreaded. Let him win what fame he might, 
gain Avhat credit, attract what notice, he car- 
ried with him no train of followers to profit by 
his success, and bar up the avenues of promo- 
tion ; for so Avas it — strange and scarce credible 
though it seem — men Avere already quarreling 
over the spoils ere the victory Avas Avon — ere, 
indeed, the battle Avas engaged, or the enemy 
encountered. 

With this brief Avord of apology for the past, 
and for the future — for Ave shall need to appeal 
again and again to the indulgence of our read- 
er — we noAV proceed Avith our story. 


i K CH AFTER VIII. 

A DYING BUD. 

It Avas\aLilfe close of a sultry day that a sick 
man, wan^ale, and almost voiceless, sat prop- 
ped up by pilloAVS, and seeming to drink in Avith 
a sort of effort the faint breeze that entered by 
an open windoAv. A large bouquet of fresh 
flowers stood in a vase beside him, and on the 
bed itself moss-roses and carnations were scat- 
tered, their gorgeous tints terribly in contrast 
to the sickly pallor of that visage on Avhich 
death had already placed its stamp. It would 
have puzzled the wiliest physiognomist to have 
read that strange and strongly-marked face ; 
for Avhile the massive head and strong broAv, 
the yet brilliant eye and contracted eyebroAv, 
denoted energy and daring, there Avas a faint 
smile, inexpressibly sad and Aveary-looking, on 
the mouth, that seemed to bespeak a heart that 
had experienced many an emotion, and ended 
by finding “all barren.” 

A long, loAV sigh escaped him as he lay, and 
in his utter Aveariness his hands dropped list- 
lessly, one falling over the side of the bed. The 
Avatchful nurse, who, in the dress of her order 
as a Sister of Charity, sat nigh, arose and lean- 
ed OA'er to regard him. 

“No, Constance, not yet,” said he, smiling 
faintly, and ansAvering the unspoken thought 
that Avas passing in her mind; “not yet; but 
very near — very near, indeed. What hour is 
it?” 

“St. Roch has just chimed half-past scA'cn,” 
replied she, calmly. 

“ Open the AvindoAv Avider ; there is a little 
air stirring.” 

“No ; the evening is very still, but it Avill be 
fresher by-and-by.” 

“I shall not need it,” said he, more faintly, 
though Avith perfect calm. “Before midnight. 


Constance — before midnig*’^ it Avill be the same 
to me if it breathed a zephyr or blew a gale : 
Avhere I am going it Avill do neither.” 

“Oh, Citizen, can I not persuade you to see, 
the Fere Dulaque or the Cure of St. Roch? 
Your minutes are fcAV here noAV, and I implore 
you not to Avaste them.” 

“’Tis so that I intend, my Avorthy friend,” 
said he, calmly. “ Had either of these excel- 
lent men you speak of made the voyage I am 
noAV going, I’d see and speak them willingly ; 
but remember, Constance, it is a sea Avithout a 
chart.” 

“ Sav not so in the face of that blessed 
book—” 

“Nay, nay, do not disturb my fcAV moments 
of calm. Hoav SAveet those floAvers are — I ioav 
balmy that little air that now stirs the leaves. 
Oh, what a fair Avorld it is, or rather it might 
be ! Do not sigh so heavily, Constance ; re- 
member Avhat I told you yesterday ; our belief 
is like our loyalty — it is independent of us.” 

“Let some holy man at least speak to you.” 

“Why should I shock his honest faith — Avhy 
should he disturb my peace ? KnoAV, Avoman,” 
added he, more powerfully, “ that I have striven 
harder to attain this same faith than ever you 
haA'O done to resist a heresy. I needed *it a 
thousand times more than you ; I’d have done 
more to gain it — clung closer to it when w’on, 
too.” 

“What did you do ?” asked she, boldly. 

“I read, reflected, pondered years long — dis- 
puted, discussed, read more — inquired Avherever 
I hoped to meet enlightenment.” 

“You never prayed,” said she, meekly. 

“Frayed! Hoav should I — not knoAving for 
Avhat, or to Avhom?” 

An exclamation — almost a cry — escaped the 
AA’oman, and her lips Avere seen to move rapidly, 
as if in prayer. The sick man seemed to re- 
spect the sentiment of devotion that he could 
not bring himself to feel, and Avas silent. At 
last he said, in a voice of much sweetness, 
“Your patient care and kindness are not the . 
less dear to me that I ascribe them to a source 
your humility Avould reject. I believe in human 
nature, my good Constance, though of a verity 
it has given me strong lessons not to.be OA’er 
sanguine.” 

“Who has had more friends?” began she; 
but he stopped her short at once by a con- 
temptuous gesture Avith his hand, Avhile he 
said — 

“Men are your friends in life as they are 
your companions on a journey — so long as your 
road lies in the same direction they Avill travel 
Avith you. To bear Avith your infirmities, to 
take count of your trials, and make alloAvance 
for your hardships — to find out what of good 
there is in you, and teach you to fertilize it for 
yourself — to discern the soil of your nature, ex- 
pel its Aveeds, and still to be hopeful — this is 
friendship. But it never comes from a brother 
man ; it is a Avoman alone can render it. Who 
is it that knocks there ?” asked he, quickly. 


86 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


She went to tlie door, nnd speedily I'eturned 
with the answer — 

“It is the same youth Avas here yesterday, 
and who refused to give his name. lie is still 
most urgent in his demand to see you.” 

“Does he knoAV what he asks — that I am on 
the eve of a long journey, and must needs have 
my thoughts engaged about the road before 
me ?” 

“I told him you were very ill — very ill, in- 
deed ; that even your dearest friends only saw 
you for a few minutes at a time : but he per- 
sisted in asserting that if you knew he was there, 
you would surely see him.” 

“Let his perseverance have its reward. Tell 
him to come in.” 

The sister returned to the door, and after a 
whispered word to the stranger, enforcing cau- 
tion in his intendcAv, admitted him, and point- 
ing to the bed where the sick man lay, she 
retired. 

If the features and gestures of the stranger, 
as he moved silently across the room, denoted 
the delicacy of a certain refinement, his dress 
bespoke great poverty : his clothes were ragged, 
his shoes in tatters, and even the red woolen 
cap which he had just removed from his head 
was patched in several places. 

The sick man motioned to him to stand Avhere 
the light would fall upon him strongly ; and 
then, having stared steadfastly at him for sev- 
eral minutes, he sighed drearily, and said, “What 
have you with mef' 

“Don’t you remember me, then. Signor Ga- 
briel?” asked the young man, in a tone of 
deep agitation. “Don’t you remember Fitz- 
gerald ?” 

“ The boy of the Maremma — the Garde du 
Corps — the favorite of the Queen — the postillion 
on the flight to Varennes — the secret letter-car- 
rier to the temple — ” 

“ Speak lower. Monsieur! speak lower, I be- 
seech you,” interposed the other. “If I Avere 
betrayed, my life is not worth an hour’s pur- 
• chase.” 

“And is it worth preserving in such a garb 
as that? I thought you had been an apter 
scholar, Gerald, and that ere this you had found 
your way to fortune. The Frince de Conde 
Avrote me that you Avere his trustiest agent.” 

“And it is on a mission from him that I am 
here this day. I haA^e been Avaiting for AA'eeks 
long to see and speak Avith you. I kneAv that 
you Avere ill, and could find no means to ap- 
proach you.” 

“You come too late, my friend — too late,” 
said Mirabeau, sighing: “Royalist, Girondin, 
Bourbon, or the Mountain, they are all illusions 
noAV !” 

“The great principles of justice are not an 
illusion, sir : the idea gf Right is immutable and 
immortal !” 

“ I knoAv of nothing that does not change and 
die,” said Mirabeau, graA'ely ; then added, “But 
what Avould you Avith me f 

“I have not courage to disturb your suffer- 


ing sick bed Avith cares you can no longer feel. 
I had not imagined I should have found you so 
ill as this.” 

“ Sick unto death — if you can tell me Avhat 
death means,” said the other, Avith a strar.ge 
smile. 

“They Avho sent, me,” resumed Gerald, not 
heeding his last remark, “believed you in all 
the vigor of health as of intellect. They have 
Avatched Avith almost breathless interest the glo- 
rious conflict you have long maintained against 
the men of anarchy and the guillotine ; they 
haA^e recognized in you the one sole man, of all 
the nation, avIio can save France — ” 

The sick man smiled sadly, and laying his 
Avasted fingers on Gerald’s arm, said, “It is not 
to be done !” 

“Do you mean. Sir Count, that it is in the 
great Providence Avho rules us that this mighty 
people should sink vmder the tyranny of a fcAV 
blood-thirsty wretches?” 

“ I spoke not of France : I spoke of the mon- 
archy,” said Mirabeau. “Look at those flow- 
ers there : in a fcAv hours hence they will have 
lost their odor and their color. Noaa% all your 
memory — be it ever so good — Avill not replace 
these to your senses. Go tell your master that 
his hour has struck. Monarchy AA^as once a 
Faith : it Avill henceforth be but a Superstition.” 

“And is a just right like this to be abandon- 
ed?” 

“No. The stranger may place them on the 
throne they have lost ; and if they be wdsc 
enough to repay the service Avith ingratitude, a 
feAv more years of this mock rule may be eked 
out.” 

“Would that I had poAver to tell you all our 
plans, and you strength to listen to me !” cried 
Gerald: “you Avould see that Avhat they pur- 
pose is no puny enterprise ; nor Avhat they aim 
at, a selfish conquest.” 

“You came to me once before — I remember 
the incident Avell ; I Avas living in the Avenue 
aux Abois Avhen you summoned me to a meet- 
ing at St. Cloud. The monarchy might IiaA'c 
been saved even then. It Avas late, but not too 
late. I adA'ised a ministry of such materials 
as the people might trust, and the court cor- 
rupt — men of Ioav origin, violent, exacting, but 
venal. Six months of such rule Avould haA^e 
sent France back to all her ancient traditions, 
and the king been more popular than CA'er. 
But they Avould not hear me : they talked of 
Avalking in the high path of duty; and it has 
led some to the scaffold, and the rest to exile ! 
But Avhat concern liaA’e I Avith these things ? 
Do you knoAA', young man, that all your king 
could promise — all the mighty people them- 
selves could bestOAv upon me as I lie here, could 
not equal the pleasure that moss-rose yields me, 
nor the ecstasy of delight I feel when a gentle 
Avind bloAvs fresh upon my cheek. Say it out, 
sir — say out Avhat that supercilious smile im- 
plies,” cried he, his eyes lighting up Avith all 
their ancient fire. “Tell me at once it Avas 
Mirabeau, the Amluptuary, that spoke there ! 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


87 


Ay, anil I’ll not gainsay yon ! If to exult in 
the perfection of tlie scmiscs nature has given 
me ; to drink in \vitli e. stasy ^vhat others im- 
bibe in apathy ; to feel a godlike enjoyment 
-where less keenly gifted temperaments had 
scarcely known a pleasure — if this is to be a 
voluptuary, I am one.” 

“ But why, with powders like yours, limit your 
enjoyment to mere sensual pleasures ? Why 
not taste the higher and purer delight of suc- 
coring misfortune and defending the power- 
less?” 

“I did try it,” said the sick man, sighing. 
“I essayed to discover the pleasures of what 
you would call morality. I Avas generous ; I 
fbrgave injuries ; I forgot ingratitude ; I aided 
struggling misery ; but the rew'ard was not 
forthcoming: these things gave ms no happi- 
ness.” 

“No happiness !” 

“ None. I tried to forget I Avas a dupe. I 
did my best to belicA^e myself a benefactor of 
my species. I stooped my ear to hear any 
praises from those I had befriended ; but noth- 
ing in my heart responded to their joy. I Avas 
not happier. Remember, boy,” cried he, “ that 
even youi" OAvn moralists only promise the rec- 
ompense for virtue in another AA'orld. I looked 
for smaller profits and prompter pfiyment.” 
The mockery of his smile, as he spoke, seemed 
to wound Gerald, for*, as he turned aAA’ay his 
head, a deep flush covered his face. “Forgive 
me,” said the sick man ; “I ought to haA^e re- 
membered that your early training Avas derived 
from those AA'orthy men, the Jesuit Fathers ; 
and if I can not participate in your consola- 
tions, I Avould not insult your convictions.” 
Then, raising himself on one arm, he added, 
Avith a stronger effort, “Your mission to me is 
a failiu*e, Fitzgerald. I can not aid your cause : 
he Avhose trembling hand can not carry the 
glass of AA'ater to his lips can scarce replace a 
fallen dynasty. I Avill not even deceive you by 
saying Avhat, if health and strength Avere mine, 
I might do — perhaps I do not knoAV it myself. 
Go back and tell your Prince that he and his 
must Avait — Avait like Avise jdiysicians — till na- 
ture bring the crisis of the malady ; that all 
they could do noAV Avould but hurt the cause 
they mean to serve. When France needs her 
princes, she Avill seek them CA'cn out of exile. 
Let them bc-\vare hoAV they destroy the prestige 
of their high estate by accepting equality mean- 
Avhile. They are the priests of a religion, and 
can ncA^er descend to the charges of the laity. 
As for you, yourself, it is Avell that I have seen 
you ; I haA'e long desired to speak to you of 
A'our OAvii fortunes. I had Avritten to Alfieri 
about you, and his ansAver — to you an important 
document — is in that box. You Avill And the 
key yonder on the ring.” ® 

As Gerald rose to obey this direction, Mira- 
beau fell back exhausted on the bed, a clammy 
SAveat breaking out OA-er his face and forehead. 
The cry, Avhich unconsciously escaped the youth. 
Quickly summoned the “sister” to the bedside. 


“This is death,” said she, in the calm, sol- 
emn voice of one long inured to such scenes. 
She tried to make him swallow a tea-spoonful 
of some restorative, but the liquid dropped over 
his lips, and fell upon his chin. “Death — and 
Avhat a death !” muttered the sister, half to her- 
self. 

“See — see — he is coming back to himself,” 
Avhispered Gerald ; “his eyes are opening, and 
his lips moA'e,” AAdiile a faint effort of the mus- 
cles around the mouth seemed to essay a smile. 

Again she moistened his lips Avith the cor- 
dial, and this time he Avas able to SAvalloAV some 
drops of it. He made a slight attempt to speak, 
and as the sister bent her ear to his lips, he 
Avhispered, faintly, “Tell him to come back — • 
to-morroAV — to-morroAV !” 

She repeated the Avords to Gerald, Avho, feel- 
ing that his presence any longer there might be 
hurtful, sloAvly and silently stepped from the 
room, and descended to the sti'cet. 

Late as it Avas, a considerable croAvd Avas as- 
sembled before the door in front of the house, 
Avhose attitude of silent and respectful anxiety 
shoAved the deep interest felt in the sick man’s 
state ; and although no name Avas spoken, the 
frequent recurrence of the Avords “ he” and “his” 
CA'inced Iioav absorbingly all thoughts Avere con- 
centrated upon one individual. Nor aa'us it 
only of one class in society the croAvd Avas com- 
posed. Mirabeau’s admirers and folloAvers Avere 
of every rank and every section of politicians ; 
and, strangely enough, men Avhose public ani- 
mosities had set them Avidely apart from each 
other, Avere here seen exchanging their last tid- 
ings of the sick room, and alternating and bal- 
ancing their hopes and fears of his condition. 

“ Jostinard calls the malady cerebral absorp- 
tion,” said one, “as though intense application 
had ])roduccd an organic change.” 

“Lessieux opines that the disease Avas pro- 
duced by those mercurial baths he used to take 
to stimulate him on occasions of great public 
display,” said another. 

“There is reason to belieA'O it a family com- 
plaint of some sort,” broke in a third; “the 
Bailli de Mirabeau sank under pure exhaus- 
tion, as if the machine had actually Avorn 
out.” 

“Pai’die !” cried out a rough-looking man in 
a working dress: “it is hard that Ave can not 
repair him Avith the strong materials the useless 
felloAvs are made of ; there are full fifty in the 
Assembly Ave could giAm for one like lihn." 

“ You talk of maladies,” broke in a loud, full 
A'oice, “and I tell you that the Citizen Requetti 
is dying of poison — ay, start, or murmur if you 
Avill — I repeat it, of poison. Do Ave not all 
knoAv hoAV his pOAver is feared, and his elo- 
quence dreaded? Are we strangers to those 
Avho hate this great and good man ?” 

“Great and good he is,” murmured anoth- 
er; “ Avhen shall Ave see his equal ?” 

“ See, here is one Avho has been lately AAuth 
him, let us learn his neAA's.” 

This speech Avas uttered by a poorly-clad 


88 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


man, with a red cap on his head, as Gerald was 
endeavoring to pierce the crowd. 

“Who is the citizen Avho has this privilege 
of speaking with Gabriel Requetti?” said Ca- 
brot, an over-dressed man, who stood the cen- 
tre of a group of talkers. 

Without paying any attention to this sum- 
mons, Gerald tried to pursue his Avay, and pass 
on ; but several already barred the passage, and 
seemed to insist, as on a right, to hear the last 
account of the sick man. For a moment a 
haughty impulse to refuse all information thus 
demanded seemed to sway Gerald ; then, sud- 
denly changing his resolution, he calmly an- 
swered that Mirabeau appeared to him so ill as 
to preclude all hope of recovery, and that his 
state portended but few hours of life. 

“Ask him who he himself is ?” — “ Why, and 
how he came there?” — “What medicines Re- 
quetti is taking?” — “Who administers them?” 
— “Let this man give an account of himself?” 
Such, and such like, Avere the cries that noAV 
resounded on all sides, and Gerald saw himself 
at once surrounded by a mob, Avhose demands 
Avere uttered in no doubtful tone. 

“The Citizen Requetti is one Avhose life is 
dear to the Republic,” broke inCabrot; “all 
Frenchmen haA-e a right to inA^estigate whateA'- 
cr affects that life. Some aA'cr that he is the 
victim of assassination — ” 

“I say, and Avill maintain it,” broke in the 
man aa'Iio had made this assertion before, “they 
have given him some stuff that causes a gradu- 
al decay.” 

“Let this man declare himself. Who arc 
you, Citizen, and Avhence ?” asked another, con- 
fronting Fitzgerald. “ What business came 
you here to transact with the Citizen Requetti ?” 

“HaA’’e I asked yow, or yow, or you,'’’ said 
Gerald, turning proudly from one to the other 
of those around him, “of your private affairs? 
Have I dared to interrogate you, as to Avho you 
are, Avhence you came, Avhither you go ? and 
by Avhat presumption do you take this liberty 
with me?'' 

“By that AAhich a care of the public safety 
imposes,” said Cabrot. “As Commissary of 
the fifth ‘ arrondissement,’ I demand this citi- 
zen’s name.” 

“You are right to be boastful of your liber- 
ty!” said Gerald, insolently, “Avhen a man can 
not Avalk the streets, nor even visit a dying 
friend, Avithout submitting himself to the treat- 
ment of a criminal.” 

“He a friend of Gabriel Requetti,” burst in 
Cabrot. “Look, I beseech you, at the appear- 
ance of the man Avho gives himself this title.” 

“ So, then, it is to my humble dress you ob- 
ject. Citizens, this speaks Avell for your frater- 
nity and equality.” 

“You shall not eA’ade a reckoning Avith us in 
this Avise, ” said Cabrot. “Let us take him to 
the Corps du Garde, citizens.” 

“Ay ! aAvay Avith him to the Corps du Garde,” 
cried several together. 

Gerald became suddenly struck by the rash- 


ness of his momentary loss of temper, and qui- 
etly said, “ I’ll not give you such trouble, citi- 
zens. What is it you Avish to hear?” 

“Your compliance comes too late,” said Ca- 
brot ; “ we Avill do the thing in order 5 off Avith 
us to the Corps du Garde.” 

“I appeal to you all, Avhy am I to be sub- 
jected to this insult ?” asked Gerald, addressing 
the croAvd. “You deliA'cr me to the Commis- 
sary, not for any crime or for any accusation of 
one, you compel me to speak about matters 
purely personal — circumstances Avhich I could 
haA'e no right to extort from any of yov. Is this 
fair — is it just — is it decent?” 

While he thus pleaded, the croAA'd Avas obliged 
to separate suddenly, and make Avay for a hand- 
some equipage, Avhich came up at full trot, and 
stopped before the door of Mirabeau’s house : 
and a murmur ran quickly around, “It is the 
Gabrielle come to ask after Requetti and Ca- 
brot, forgetting his part of public prosecutor, 
noAV approached the AvindoAv of the carriage 
Avith an almost servile affectation of courtesy. 
Had Gerald been so disposed, nothing AA'ould 
have been easier for him than to make his es- 
cape in the dh^ersion caused by this neAV inci- 
dent, so eager Avas the croAvd to press around 
and catch a glimpse of her aa hose gloved hand 
noAV rested on the door of the carriage. 

“ She is Requetti’s mistress,” cried one, “ is 
not she?” 

“Not a bit of it. Requetti declared he Avould 
have no other mistress than France ; and though 
she yonder changed her name to Gabrielle, to 
flatter him — though she has sought and folloAA*- 
ed him for more than a year, it avails her noth- 
ing.” 

“Less than nothing I’d call it,” said another, 
.“since she pays for all those floAvers that come 
up from the banks of the Var — the rarest roses 
and orange buds — just to please him.” 

“More than that, too; she has paid all his 
debts — in Paris somiC six hundred thousand 
liA'res — all for a man aaIio Avill not look at her.” 

“That is to be a ‘A'eritable’ AA'oman,” said a 
foppish-looking man,- Avho Avas for some time 
endeavoring to attract the attention of the fair 
occupant of the carriage. MeanAvhile, Gerald 
had pressed his AV'ay through the croAvd, curious 
to catch one look of her Avhese dcA'oticn seemed 
so romantic. 

“You see me in dcs) air — in utter despair. 
Belle Gabrielle. There was no place to be had 
at the Franejais last night, and I missed your 
glorious ‘Phedre.’” 

Her reply Avas inaudible, but the other Avent 
on — • 

“Of course, the effort must haA-e cost you 
deeply, yet even in that counterfeit of another's 
sorroAv, Avho knoAvs if you did not intcrj.olale 
some portion of your OAvn grief I” 

“Is he better — can I not see the Sister Con- 
stance ?” asked she, in a Ioav and liquid voice. 

“He is no better — I believe he is far Avorse 
than yesterday. There was a young man here 
this moment Avho satv him, and whose inter- 


“ THE CHEVALIER.” 


89 


view, by the Avay, gave rise to grave specula- 
tion. There he is yonder — a strange looking 
figure to call himself the friend of Gabriel 
Requetti.” 

“ Who or what is he ?” asked she eageidy. 

“ It is what none of us know, though, indeed, 
at the moment you came up, Ave had some 
thoughts of compelling him to declare. Need 
I tell you that there is grave suspicion of foul 
play here ; many are minded to believe that 
Mirabeau has been poisoned. See how that 
fellow continues to stare at you, Gabrielle. Do 
you know him?” 

Step by step, slowly, but Avith eyes riveted 
upon the object before him, Gerald had noAV 
approached the carriage, and stood within a few 
yards of it, his eye-balls staring Avildly, his lips 
apart, and ev'ery line of his face betraying the 
most intense astonishment. Nor aa'us Gabrielle 
less moved : Avith her head protruded beyond 
the carriage-AvindoAV, and her hair pushed sud- 
denly back by some passing impulse, she stared 
Avildly at the stranger. 

“ Gherardi, Gherardi mio !” cried she at last. 

Speak, and tell me if it be you.” 

“Marietta, oh. Marietta,” said he, Avith a 
sigh, Avhose heartfelt cadence seemed eloquent 
in sorrow. 

“Come Avith me. Come home Avith me, and 
you shall hear all,” said she, in Italian, an- 
swering as it AA'ere the accents of his Avords. 

The young man shook his head mournfully 
in reply, but never spoke. 

“I tell you,” cried she, more passionately, 
“that you shall hear all. It is more than I 
have said to a confessor. Come, come,” and 
she flung open the door as she spoke. 

“If you but kncAV hoAV I have longed to see 
you. Marietta,” Avhispercd he, in broken ac- 
cents; “ but not thus, oh, not thus !” 

“How, then, do you dare to judge me?” c:icd 
she, with flashing eyes ; “ hoAV presume to scoff 
at my affluence, Avhile I Inwe not dared to re- 
flect upon your poverty? Once, and for the 
last time, I say, come Avith me !” 

Without another word he sprang to her side, 
the door Avas closed, and the carriage drove 
rapidly away, ere the staring crowd could ex- 
press their amazement at Avhat they Avitnessed. 



“la gabrielle.” 

By one of those inconsistencies Avhich SAA’ay 
the poj)ular mind in times of trouble, the gor- 
geous splendor and Avasteful extravagance Avhich 
Avere not permitted to an ancient nobility Avere 
Avillingly conceded to those Avho noAv ministered 
to public amusement, and the costly magnifi- 
cence Avhich aided the downfall of a monarchy 
AA'as deemed pardonable in one Avhose early 
years had been passed in misery and in Avant. 

It was in the ancient hotel of the Duke de 
Noailles that Gabrielle Avas lodged, and all the 


splendor of that princely residence remained as 
in the time of its former OAvners ^ even to the 
portraits of the haughty ancestry upon the Avails, 
and the proud emblazonry of ai morial bearings 
over doors and chimneys, nothing Avas changed ; 
the embroidered crests u})on chairs and table- 
coA^ers, the gilded coronets that ornamented 
every architrave and cornice, stood forth in test- 
imony of those in Avhose honor those insignia 
Avere fashioned. 

Preceding Gerald, and Avalking at a rapid 
pace, Gabrielle passed through several splendid 
rooms, till she came to one Avhose Avails, hung 
in purple velvet Avith a deep gold fringe, had 
an air of almost sombre magnificence, the fur- 
niture being all of the same graA^e tint, and 
eA'en the solitary lamp Avdiich lighted the apart- 
ment having a glass shade of a deep purple 
color. 

“This is my chamber of study, Gherardi,” 
said she, as they entered. “None ever come 
to disturb me Avhen here. Here, therefore, Ave 
are alone to question and to reply to each other 
— to render account of the past, and speculate 
on the future — and, first of all, tell me am I 
changed.” 

As she spoke she threAV from her her bonnet, 
and loosening her long hair from its bands suf- 
fered it to fall upon her neck and shoulders in 
the Avild masses it assumed in girlhood. She 
crossed her arms, too, upon her breast in imita- 
tion of a gesture familiar to her, and stood mo- 
tionless before him. 

Long and steadfastly did Gerald continue to 
stare at her. It Avas like the look of one Avho 
Avould read if he might every trait and linea- 
ment before him, and satisfy his mind what 
cliaracters had time written upon a nature he 
had once knoAvn so well. 

“You do not answer me,” said she, at last; 
“am I then changed?” 

A faint low sigh escaped him, but without a 
Avord. 

“Be frank AA’ith me as a brother ought, tell 
me Avherein is this change. You thought me 
handsome once, am I less so ?” 

“ Oh ! no, no ! not that, not that !” cried he, 
passionately; “you are more beautiful than 
ever.” 

“ Is there in my expression aught that gives 
you grief ; has the Avorld AAwitten boldness upon 
my broAV, or do you fancy that you can trace 
the cost of all the splendor around us in some 
faint lines of shame and sorroAV ? Speak, sir, 
and be honest Avith me.” 

“I haA'e no right to call you to such a reck- 
oning, Marietta,” said he, half proudly. 

“I knoAV it, and Avould have resented had 
you dared to do it of a right ; but I stand here 
as one equal to such questioning. It Avill be 
your OAvn turn soon,” added she smiling, “and 
it Avill be Avell if you can stand the test so 
bravely.” 

“ I accept the challenge,” cried Gerald, eager- 
ly ; “I take you at your Avord. Some years 
back, Marietta, I left you poor, friendless, and 


90 


GERALD EITZGERALD, 


a wayworn wanderer tlirougli the world. Our 
fortunes were*alike in those days, and I can re- 
member when we deemed the day a lucky one 
that did not send us supperless to bed. We 
had sore trials and we felt them, though we 
bore them bravely. When we parted, our lot 
was misery, and nOAV, what do I see: I find 
you in the splendor of a princely house; your 
dress, that which might become the highest 
rank ; the very jewels on your wrist and on your 
fingers, a fortune. I know well,” added he, 
bitterly, “that in this brief interval of time 
destiny has changed many a lot — great and 
glorious men have fallen, and mean, ignoble, 
and unworthy ones have taken their places. 
A^ou, however, as a woman, could have taken 
no share in these convulsions — how is it, then, 
that I see you thus?” 

“Say on, sir,” said she, with a disdainful 
gesture, “these words mean nothing, or more 
than they ought.” 

He did not speak, but he bent his eyes upon 
her in reproachful silence. 

“You lack the courage to say the word. 
Well, I’ll say it for you : Whoso mistress are 
you, to be thus splendidly attired ? What gen- 
erous patron has purchased this princely house 
■ — given you equipage, servants, diamonds? 
Against how much have you bartered your 
heart? Who has paid the price? Ay, confess 
it, these were the generous thoughts that filled 
your mind — these the delicate questions your 
timidity could not master. Well, as I have 
spoken, so will I answer them. Only remem- 
ber this,” added she, solemnly, “when I have 
made this explanation, when all is told, there is 
an end forever between us of that old tie that 
once bound us : we trust each other no more. 
It is for you to say if you accept this contract.” 

Gerald was silent ; if he could not master the 
suspicions that impressed him, as little could he 
resolve to forget forever his hold upon Mari- 
etta. That she was one to keep her word he 
well knew ; and if she decided to part, he felt 
that the separation was final. She watched him 
calmly, as he sat in this conflict with himself ; 
so far from showdng any sense of impatience at 
tJie struggle, she seemed rather to enjoy the 
painful difficulty of his position. 

“Well, have you made your choice?” cried 
she, at length, as 'with a slight smile, she stood 
in front of him. 

“ It would be a treachery to my own heart, 
and to you, too, were I to say that all this mag- 
nificence I see here suggested no thought of 
evil. We were poor even to misery once. 
Marietta — I am still so ; and well I know that 
in such wretchedness as ours temptation is 
triply dangerous. To tell me that you have 
yielded is, then, no more than to confess you 
were like others.” 

“ Of what, then, do you accuse me ? Is it 
that I am Mirabeau’s mistress? Would that I 
were,” cried she, passionately; “would that by 
my devotion I could share his love, and give 
him all my own. You would cry shame upon 


me for this avowal. You think more highly 
of your own petty contrivances, your miserable 
attempts to sustain a mock morality — your 
boasted tie of marriage — than of the emotions 
that are born with, us, that move our infancy, 
sway our manhood, and temper our old age. 
You hold that by such small cheats you supply 
the insatiable longings of the human heart. 
But the age of priestcraft is over — throne, altar, 
purple, sceptre, incense and all, have fled ; and 
in the stead of man’s mummeries we have in- 
stalled man himself, in the might of his intel- 
lect, the glorious grandeur of his great concep- 
tions, and the noble breadth of his philanthropy ; 
and who is the type of these, if not Gabriel 
Requetti ? His mistress ! what have I not done 
to win the proud name ? Have I not striven 
hard for it ? These triumphs, as they call 
them, my great successes, had no other prompt- 
ings. If my fame as an actress stands highest 
in Europe, it was gained but in his cause. 
Your great Alfieri himself has taught me no 
emotions I have not learned in my own deep 
love ; and how shadowy and weak the poet’s 
words beside the throbbing ecstacies of one true 
heart! You ask for a confession: you shall 
have one. But why do you go? — would you 
leave me?” 

“Would that we had never met again,” said 
Gerald, sadly. “Through man}’’ a dark and 
sad hour have I looked back upon our life, when, 
as little more than children, we journeyed days 
long together. I pictured to myself how the 
same teachings that nerved my own heart in 
trouble must have supported and sustained 
yours. If you knew how I used to dwell upon 
the memory of that time — its very privations 
were hallowed in my memory, telling how 
through all our little cai'cs and sorrows our love 
sufficed us !” 

“Our love,” broke she in, scoffingly, “what 
a mockery ! The poor offspring of some weak 
sentimentality, the sickly cant of some dreamy 
sonneteer. These men never knew what love 
was, or they had not dared to profane it by their 
tawdry sentiments. Is it in nature,” cried she, 
wildly, “ to declare trumpet-tongued to the 
world the secrets on -vYhicli the heart feeds to 
live, the precious thoughts that to the dearest 
could not be revealed ? These are your poets ! 
Over and over have I wished for you, to tell you 
this — to tear out of your memory that wretched 
heresy we then believed a faith.” 

“You have done your -work well,” said he, 
sorrowfully. “Good-by forever!” 

“I wish you w’ould not go, Gherardi,” said 
she, laying her hand on his arm, and gazing at 
him with a look of the deepest meaning. “To 
me, alone and orphaned, you represent a fam- 
ily and kindred. The old ties are tender ones.” 

“Why will you thus trifle with me ?” said he, 
half angrily. “ Is it to rekindle the flame you 
would extinguish afterward?” 

“And why not return to that ancient faith? 
You were happier when you loved me — when I 
learned my verses by your side, and sang the 


91 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


wild songs of my own wiki land. Do you re- 
member this one : it was a favorite once with 
you?” and, turning to the piano, *she struck a 
tew chords, and, in a voice of liquid melody, 
sang a little Calal)re3e peasant song, whose re- 
frain ended with the words 

“ Ti am’ ancor, ti am’ ancor.” 

“After the avowal you have made me. Mari- 
etta, it were base in me to be beguiled thus,” 
said he, moving away. “You love another: be 
it so. Live in that love, and be happy.” 

“This, too, Gherardi, we used to sing to- 
gether,” said she, beginning anotlicr air. “Let 
us see if your memory, of which you boast so 
much, equals mine. Come, this is your verse,” 
said she, caressingly. “Ah, fratello mio, how 
much more lovable you w'ere long ago. I re- 
member a certain evening, that glided into a 
long night, when we leaned together, with arms 
around each other’s necks, out of a little win- 
dow : it was a poor, melancholy street beneath, 
but to us it was like an alley between cedar- 
trees. Well, on that same night, you swore to 
me a vow of eternal love ; you told me a mi- 
raculous story: that, though poor and friendless, 
you were of birth and blood ; and that birth and 
blood meant rank and fortune, in some long 
hereafter, which neither of us Avere impatient 
for. It Avas on that same night you dreAV a 
picture to my mind of our life of happiness — a 
bright and gorgeous picture it Avas, too — ay, and 
I believed it all ; and yet, and yet — on the very 
day after you deserted me.” As she uttered 
the last Avords, her head fell upon his shoulder, 
and her long hair in waving masses drooped 
doAvn over his chest and on his arm ; a Auolent 
sobbing seemed to choke her utterance, and her 
frame shook Avith a tremor. 

Gerald sank into a chair, and pressed her 
gently to his heart. Oh, Avhat a Avild conflict 
raged Avithin him — Avhat hopes and fears, Avishes 
and dreads, Avarred there Avith each other. At 
one moment all his former Ioa'o came back, and 
she Avas the same Marietta he had Avandered 
Avith through the chestnut groA'cs, reciting in 
boyisli ardor tlic verses he had learned to mafj- 
ter; at the next, a shuddering shame reminded 
him that she had just confessed she loA’cd an- 
other, making a very mockery of the memory of 
their former passion. What, too, Avas she — 
Avhat her life — that she did not dare to re- 
veal it? 

“And you,” cried she, suddenly springing 
up, “ Avhat do you knoAv of llequetti — hoAV came 
you to be Avith him ?” 

“I have knoAvn him long. Marietta, Avould 
that I had iieA'er knoAvn him. Without him 
and his teachings 1 had thought better of the 
Avorld — been less })ronc to suspect — less ready 
to distrust. You may remember hoAV long ago 
I told you of a certain Gabriel — ” 

“It Avas he, then, Avho befriended you in the 
Maremma. Oh, the noble nature that can do 
generous things, yet seem to think them weak- 
ness. IIoAv widely different from your poets j 
this — your men of high sentiment and sordid 


action — your coiners cf fine phrases, hollow- 
hearted and emptA'.” • 

“True enough,” said Gerald, bitterly, “Ga- 
briel de Mirabeau is at least consistent : his 
sentiments are all in harmony with his life — he 
is no hypocrite.” 

It AA^as Avith a quick gesture, like a tigress 
about to spring, tliat she noAV turned on him ; 
her eye-balls staring Avildly, and her fingers 
closely clutched. “ Is it,” cried srle in passion, 
“ is it given to creatures like you or me to judge 
of a man like this? Do you imagine, that by 
any strain of your fancy you can conceive the 
trials, the doubts, the difficulties, Avhich beset 
him ? To intellects like his Avhat we call ex- 
cess may give that repose Avhich to sluggish na- 
tures comes of mere apathy. I, too,” said she, 
drawing herself proudly up, “I, too, have been 
his pupil : he saAV me in the Cleopatra ; he told 
me hoAv I had misconceived the poet — or rather, 
hoAV the poet had mistaken the character — for 
he loves not your A1 fieri.” 

“ Hoav should he? Whence could he draAv 
upon the noble fund of emotions that fill that 
great heart?” 

A smile of proud ineffable scorn Avas all her 
reply. 

“Tell me rather of yourself. Marietta mia,” 
said he, taking her hand, and placing her at 
his side. “I long to hear Iioav you became 
great and distinguished as I see you.” 

“ The human heart throbs alike beneath 
rags or purple. When I could make tears 
course down the rude cheeks that Avere gaunt 
Avith famine — the task Avas easy to move those 
Avhose natures yielded to lighter impulse. Eor 
a Avhole Avintcr — it Avas the first after we parted 
— I Avas the actress of a little theatre in the 
cite. We dramatized the events of the day; 
and they Avhose hard toil estranged them from 
the Avorld of active life, could see at CA'ening 
the sorroAA^s and sufferings of the nobility they 
hated, on ‘the scene.’ The sack of chateau, 
and the guillotine Avere fiiA'oritc themes ; and 
mine Avas to portray some Avoman of the people, 
seduced, Avronged, deserted, but avenged ! A 
chance' — a caprice of the moment — brought 
Requetti one night to our theatre. He came 
behind the scenes, and talked Avith me. My 
accent betrayed my birth, and Ave talked Italian. 
He questioned me closely, Iioav and Avhere I 
had learned to declaim. I spoke of you, 
though not by name. ‘Ah!’ cried he, ‘a 
loA'er already!’ The look AA'hich he gaA’e me 
at the Avords aa’us like a stab ; 1 felt it here, in 
my heart. It Avas the careless scoff of one Avho 
deemed that to such as me no sense of delicacy 
need be obseiwed. He might think and say as 
he pleased, my station Avas too ignoble to sug- 
gest respect. I hated him, and turned aAvay, 
voAving, if occasion served, to be revenged upon 
him. He came a feAV nights after, accompanied 
by seA’eral others — there Avere ladies too, hand- 
some, and splendidly dressed. This splendor 
shocked the meanness of our misery, and even 
outraged the meanly clad audience around. 


92 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


saw this ; ami seized it as the opportunity of 
my vengeance.' Our piece tvas, as usual, the 
story of our daily life ; I represented a seduced 
peasant girl, left to starve in a chateau, from 
which the owners had gone to enjoy the delights 
of Paris. I had wandered on foot to the capital, 
and was supposed to be in search of my sedu- 
cer through the streets. I sat famished and 
shivering upon a door-sill, watching with half 
listless gaze the rich tide of humanity that 
swept past. 1 heeded not the proud display of 
equipages — the gay groups — the gorgeous pro- 
cession of life before me ; till suddenly, as if 
on a balcony, I beheld him I sought, the centre 
of a knot of beautiful women, who, leaning 
over the balustrade, seemed to criticise the 
world below. Addressing myself at once to 
where Requetti sat, I made him part of the 
scene. I knew nothing of him, nor of his his- 
tory; but in blind chance I actually invented 
some of the chief incidents of his life. I made 
him a profligate, a duelist, and a seducer. I 
represented how he had won the affections of 
his friend’s wife — eloped with, and deserted 
her ; and yet, covered wdth crime, debased by 
every iniquity, and degraded by all vice — there 
he sat, successful, triumphant, and esteemed. 
What was my amazement, as the curtain fell, 
to see him at my side. ‘I have come,’ said 
he, in that rich, deep voice of his — ‘I have 
come to make you my compliments ; you have 
your country’s gift, and can “improvise” well!’ 
I blushed deeply, and could not answer him ; 
l>ut he went on: ‘These, however, are not 
wise themes to dwell upon. Popular passions 
are dangerous seas, and will often shipw’reck 
even those whose breath has stirred them ; be- 
sides, this is not art ;’ and with these words he 
launched forth into a grand description of w'hat 
really should constitute the artist’s realm — 
to W'hat his teachings might extend — where 
should be their limits. He showed how the 
strict imitation of nature was an essential, yet, 
that the true criterion of success in art lay in 
the combination of such ingredients as best 
suited the impression to be conveyed ; no mean 
or petty detail, however truthful or accurate, 
being suffered to detract from the whole con- 
ception. lie then warned me against exagger- 
ation, the prime fault of all inexperienced 
minds. ‘ Even this very moment,’ said he, ‘you 
marred a fine effect when you spoke of me as 
one capable of parricide.’ ‘ Of you,’ said I, 
blushing, and trying to disown the personality. 

‘ Yes,’ said he, ‘ of me. Your biography was 
often very accurate — to any but myself it might 
seem painfully accurate : I have done all that 
you ascribe to mo, and morel’ ‘But I never 
knew it,’ cried I — ‘I never heard it: my im- 
j)rovisation was pure chance. I owed you a 
vendetta for some cruel words you had spoken 
to me.’ ‘I remember them,’ said he, smiling: 
‘^mu may live to believe that such phrases are 
a flattery ! But to yourself, come to me to-mor- 
row : bring your books with you, that you may 
read me something I will select. I can, and 


may befriend you !’ And he did befriend me. 
There was with him a tall, dark man, of sombre 
aspect, and a* deep voice, who questioned me 
long and closely as to my early studies, and 
W’ho undertook from that hour to teach me. 
This was Talma. And now a life of glorious 
labor opened upon me. I worked unceasingly 
— with such ardor, indeed, as to affect my 
health, which at last gave way, and I wms 
obliged to retire into the country, on the Loire, 
to recruit. Requetti came to see me once there : 
he was coming up from the south, and happen- 
ed to stop at Tours. His visit was scarcely an 
hour, but it left me with memories that endured 
for months. But why should I weary you wdth 
a recital which can only interest, when all its 
daily chances and changes arc duly w'eighed ? 
I came out at the ‘Fran^ais,’ as Zaire: my 
success w'as a triumph ! Roxane followed, and 
was even a greater success. You do not care 
to hear by w'hat flatteries I was surrounded, 
what temptations assailed me, what wealth laid 
at my feet — what protestations of devotion, 
w hat offers of splendor met me. We were in a 
world that, repudiating all its old traditions, 
had sworn allegiance to a new code ! Nobility, 
birth, title, were as nothing ; genius alone 
could sw'ay men’s minds. Eloquence was deem- 
ed the grand exponent of intellect; and next 
after the splendid oratory of the Constituent 
came the declamation of the drama. You 
must know France in its aspect of generous 
youth — in this, its brightest hour of destiny — to 
understand how much of influence is wielded 
by those w'ho once were deemed the mere crea- 
tures of a pampered civilization. The artist is 
now a ‘puissance,’ as is every pow'er that can 
move the passions, influence the motives, and 
direct the actions of mankind. The choice of 
the piece we played at night w'as in accordance 
with the political exigency of the day; and 
often has it been my lot, to complete by some 
grand declamation the eloquent appeal by 
which Mirabeau had moved the Assembly. 
Oh, what a glorious life it was to feel no longer 
the mere mouth-piece of mock passion, but a 
real, actual, living influence on men’s hearts 5 
what a triumph w as it then to hear that wild 
outburst of applause, that seemed to siiy — ‘Here 
are w'e, ready at your call ; speak but the word 
and the blade shall flash and the brand flare ; 
denounce the treason, and leave the traitors to 
us I’ It was in this life, as in an orgie, I have 
lived. If you fancy that I exaggerate this 
powder, or overrate its extent, listen to one fact. 
I Avas one night at Mirabeau’s— at one of those 
small, select receptions, which none but his most 
intimate friends frequented. D’Entraiques was 
there, Lavastoeque, Maurice de Talletwand, 
De Noe, and a fetv more. We Avere talking of 
the fall of the monarchy, and discussing wheth- 
er there W’as in the story any thing that future 
dramatists might successfully avail themselves 
of. The majority thought not, and gave their 
reasons. I Avas not able to controA'ert by argu- 
ment such subtle critics, but I replied by im- 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


93 


provising a scene in the Temple, of Marie An- 
toinette ^vl•iting a last letter to her children. 
There was no incident to give story, no acces- 
sory of scenery to suggest a picture ; but I felt 
that the theme had its own patlietic power, and 
I was right — D’Enti-aiques shed tears — Charles 
de Noe sobbed aloud. ‘ She must never re- 
peat this,’ muttered Requetti. ‘Not for a 
while at least,’ said Talleyrand, smiling, as he 
took a pinch of snuff. Fi’om that hour I felt 
what it was to stir men’s hearts. Then, success 
became real; for it was certain and assured.” 

♦ 

CHARTER X. 

SOME OF time’s CHANGES. 

Resisting all Marietta’s entreaties to stay 
and sup with her — resisting blandishments that 
might have subjugated sterner moralists — Ger- 
ald quitted her to seek out his humble lodging 
in the “Rue de Marais.” Like all men who 
have gained a victory over themselves, he was 
proud of his triumph, and almost boastfully con- 
trasted his tattered dress and lowly condition 
with the splendor he had just left behind him. 

“I suppose,” muttered he to himself, “I, 
too, might win success, if I could stifle all sense 
of conscience within me, and be the slave of the 
vile thing they call the world. It is what men 
would call my own fault, if I be poor and friend- 
less — so, assuredly, Mirabeau would say.” 

“Mirabeau will not say so any more, then,” 
said a voice close beside him, in the dark street. 

“Why so?” asked Gerald, fiercely. 

“ Simply because that great moralist is dead.” 

Not noticing the half sarcasm ol the epithet, 
Gerald eagerly asked when the event occurred. 

“ I can tell you almost to a minute,” said the 
other. “We were just coming to the close of 
the third act of the piece ‘L’Amour le veut,’ 
where I was playing Jostard, when the news 
came ; and the public at once called out, ‘Drop 
the curtain.’” 

As the speaker had just concluded these 
words, the light of a street-lamp fell full upon 
his figure, and Gerald beheld a meanly clad but 
good-looking man of about eight and twenty, 
whose features were not unfamiliar to him. 

“We have met before, sir,” said he. 

“ It was because I recognized your voice I 
ventured to address you — you were a Garde du 
Corps once.” 

“And you ?” 

“I was once upon a time the Viscount Al- 
fred de Noe,” sai.d the other lightly. “It was 
a part my ancestors performed for some seven 
or eight centuries. Now, I change my ‘ role’ 
every night.” 

Through all the levity of this remark there 
was also what savored of courage, that bold de- 
fiance of the turns of fortune which sounded 
haughtily. 

“I, too, have had my reverses; but not like 
yours,” said Gerald, modestly. 


“ When a man is killed by a fall, what signi- 
fies it if the drop has been fifty feet or five hun- 
dred! Mon cher,” said the other, “you and I 
were once gentlemen — we talked, ate, drank, 
and dressed as such ; we have now the canaille 
life, and the past is scarcely even a dream.” 

“It is the present I would call a dream,” 
said Gerald. 

“ I’d do so too, if its cursed reality would let 
me,” said De Noe, laughing, “or if I could 
throw off the cast of shop for one brief hour, 
and feel myself the man 1 once was.” 

“What are you counting — have you lost any 
thing ?” asked Gerald, as the other turned over 
some pieces of money in his hand, and then 
hastily searched pocket after pocket. 

“ No ; I was just seeing if I had wherewithal 
to ask you to sup with me, and I find that I 
have.” 

“ Rather, come and share mine — I live here,” 
said Gerald, as he pushed a door which lay 
ajar. “It’s a very humble meal I invite you to 
partake of; but we’ll drink to 'the good time 
coming.” 

“ I accept frankly,” said the other, as he fol- 
lowed up the dark and narrow stairs. 

“A bed, and a looking-glass, as I live!” 
exclaimed De Noe, as he entered the room. 
“ What a sybarite ! Why, my friend, you out- 
rage the noble precepts of our glorious Revolu- 
tion by these luxurious pretensions — you insult 
equality and fraternity together.” 

“Let me, at least, conciliate liberty, then,” 
said Gerald, gayly, “and ask you to feel your- 
self at home.” 

“ How am I to call thee, mon cher ?” said De 
Noe, assumingthe familiar second person, which, 
if I do not continue to use, I beg my reader to 
supply in the remainder of the interview. 

“ Gerald Fitzgerald is my name.” 

“Le Chevalier Fitzgerald was just becoming 
a celebrity when they changed the spectacle. 
Ah, mon cher, what a splendid engagement vve 
all had, if we only knew how to keep it !” 

“The fault was not entirely ours,” broke in 
Gerald. 

“ Perhaps not. The good public were grow- 
ing tired of being always spectators ; they want- 
ed, besides, to see what was behind the scenes, 
and they found the whole machinery even more 
a sham than they expected, and so they smashed 
the stage and scattered the actors.” 

Gerald had now covered the table with the 
materials of his frugal meal, and brought forth 
his last two bottles of Bourdeaux, long reserved 
to celebrate the first piece of good fortune that 
might betide him. 

“ It is easy to see,” cried De Noe, “ that you 
serve a Prince ; your fare is worthy of Royalty, 
my dear Fitzgerald. Had you supped with me, 
your meal had been a mess of ‘ Haricot’s Olaves,’ 
washed down Avith the light wines of the ‘Pays 
Latin.’” 

“And Avhy, or how, do you suspect in whose 
service I am?” asked Gerald eagerly. 

“ My dear friend, every man of the cmigra. 


GEKALD ^ITZGER^^XD, 


94 

tion is known to the police, and I am one of its 
agents. I am frank witii you just to show you 
that you may be as candid with me. Like you 
I came to Paris as a secret agent of ‘ the fami- 
ly.’ I plotted, and schemed, and intrigued, to 
obtain access to information. All my reports, 
however, Avere discouraging. I had no tidings 
to tell, but such as boded ill. I saAv the game 
Avas up ; and 1 Avas honest enough or foolish 
enough to say so. The orgies of the ReA^olu- 
tion AA^ere only beginning, and no one wished to 
come back to the rigid decency and decorous 
propriety of the monarchy. These Avere not 
pleasant things, to Avrite back — they Avere less 
pleasant, too, to read ; besides that, a man aaLo 
spent some three thousand francs a month ought, 
surely, to have had something more agreeable 
to report, and they intimated as much to me. 
Well, I endeavored to obey. I frequented cer- 
tain coteries at the Abbe Clery’s ; I Avent of an 
evening to D’Allonville’s ; and I even used to 
])ass a Sunday at St. Germains, Avith old Ma- 
dame de St. Leon. I familiarized my mind 
Avith all the favorite expressions, and filled my 
letters Avith the same gloAving fallacies, that they 
ever repeated to each other. This finished me : 
they called me a knaA'e, and dismissed me. I 
had then to choose betAveen becoming a secret 
agent of the police, or throAving myself into the 
Seine. I took the humbler part and became a 
s])y. They assigned me the theatres, the small, 
loAv ‘ spectacles’ of the populace, and for this I 
had to become an actor. It Avas a a'Ow of pov- 
erty I took, my dear Chevalier ; but I ahvays 
hoped I Avas to rise to a higher order, Avhich did 
not enjoin fasts nor disclaim clean linen. Seven- 
teen long months has this slaA’cry noAV endured, 
and during this time have I had sev'entcen hund- 
red temptations to pitch my career to the devil, 
Avho invented it, and take the consequences 
Avhatever they Avere ; but somehoAV — shall I OAvn 
it — the chances and changes of this strange time 
haA’e groAvnto assume to my mind the vicissitudes 
of a game. Even from the humble place I oc- 
cupied have I seen those that seemed fortune’s 
first faAmrites ruined, and many a one as poor 
and need}", and friendless a.s — as you or myself, 
rise to eminence, Avealth, and poAA'er. This 
thought has given such an interest to CA-ents 
that I am reluctant to quit the table. What 
depressed me Avas, that I Avas alone. Our old 
friends looked coldly on me, for I Avas no longer 
‘of them.’ Among the others,' I kneAV not 
Avhom to trust, for in my heart of hearts I have 
no faith in the Re\mlution. Now I haA'c Avatched 
you for months back . I kncAV your purpose, the 
places you frequented, the themes that interest- 
ed you ; and I often said to myself, that man 
‘ Gerard’ — for so Ave called you in the police 
roll — AA’ould suit me. He AA"as a Royalist, like 
me; his sympathies are like my OAvn — so are 
his presejit necessities. I could, besides, give 
him much information of value to his party. 
In a Avord, I Avanted you, Fitzgerald, and I felt 
that if I could not make my own fortune I could 
certainly aid yours,’’' 


There are men Avhose influence upon certain 
others is like a charm : Avithout any seeming ef- 
fort — Avithout apparently a care on the subject — 
the Avords sink deep into the heart, and carry 
persuasion Avith them. Of these Avas De Noe. 
Poor and miserable as he Avas, the stamp of gen- 
tleman AA’as indelibly on him ; and as Gerald sat 
and listened, the other’s opinions and vieAvs stole 
gradually into his mind Avith a poAver scarcely 
conceiA'able. 

The ranges of his knoAvledge, too, seemed 
marvelous. He kncAV not only the theory of 
each pretender to popular favor, but the names 
and plans of their opponents. His firm convic- 
tion Avas that Mirabeau not only could but AA’Ould 
have saved the monarchy. 

“And noAv ?” cried Gerald, eager to hear 
Avhat he had to predict. 

“And noAv the cards are shuffling for a noAV 
deal, Gerard, but the game Avill be a stormy one. 
The men Avho haA'e convulsed France have not 
received their Avages ; they are groAving hourly 
more and more imjiatient, and the end Avill be 
they’ll murder the paymasters.” 

By a long but not Avearisome line of argument 
he Avent on to shoAv that the Revolution Avould 
consume itself. Out of anarchy and blood men 
Avould seek the deliverance of a dictator, and the 
real hope of the monarchists Avas in making terms 
Avith him. 

“ You Avill meet no accep<tance for those opin- 
ions from your friends : they are too lukcAvarm 
for sanguine loyalty ; they are, besides, to be 
the AA"ork of time. But think and ponder then, 
Fitzgerald. Go out to-moiroAv into the streets, 
and count hoAV many heads must fall before men 
Avill condescend to reason ; the gaunt and fam- 
ished faces you Avill meet are scarcely the guar- 
antees of a long tranquillity. If the monarchy 
is ever to come back to France, it is the mob 
must restore it.” 

“These arc Mirabeau's Avoids,” said Gerald, 
quickly. 

“It Avas a craftier than Mirabeau exidained 
them though,” broke in De Noe, “ the shreAvd 
and subtle Maurice de Talleyrand ! But let us 
turn to ourselves and our OAvn fortunes. What are 
Ave to do that France may benefit by our A’aluable 
services? Hoav are our grand intelligences to 
redound to the adAmitage of the nation ?” 

“ I confess I haA^e no plans. I groAV AA'eary 
of this inglorious life I lead. If there Avas an 
army in Avhosc ranks I could fight I’d turn a 
soldier, and care little in Avhat cause.” 

“ I guess the secret of your recklessness, Ger- 
ald ; I read it in every Avord you speak.” 

“ Hoav so ? What do you mean ?” 

“You are in loA'e, mon cher. These are the 
promptings of a hopeless passion.” 

“lou Avere never more Avrong in your life,” 
said Gerald, blushing till his face and forehead 
Avere crimson. 

“Would you try to deceiA^e a man trained to*- 
the subtleties of such a life as mine ? Do you 
fancy that a ‘mouchard’ can not read the 
thoughts that men have scarcely confessed to 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


95 


theniSvlves ? It is not their ])rivilef]i:G to win 
confidences, hut to extort tliem ; and so, I tell 
you again, Gerald, you arc in love.” 

“And again, I say, you are mistaken ; I have 
but to remind you of the life I lead — its cares 
and duties — to show you how unlikely, if not 
impossible, were such an event.” 

“Bah!” said the other, scoffingly. “You 
stand at the door of the opera. As the crowd 
jiours out, a shawled and muffled figure hastily 
l)assss to her carriage ; she speaks a word or 
two, and the tones arc in your heart for years 
after. The diligence drives at daybreak through 
some country village ; a curtain is hastily with- 
drawn, and a pair of eyes meet yours, in which 
there is no cxiiression save a jdeased surprise; 
and yet you think of them in fflr-away lands, 
and across seas, as dear remembrances. Some- 
thing more than these, an impression a little 
stronger, will oftentimes give the motive to a 
whole life. You doubt it ; well, listen to a con- 
fession of my own. When I first took service 
under my present masters, they assigned to me 
as the sphere of duty, a small and miserable 
theatre in the citeh When I tell you that the 
entrance was four sous you have the measure 
of its pretensions. What singular destiny brought 
our strange corps together I can not think ; we 
were of every class and condition of life, and 
of eveiy shade of temperament and character. 
There was a Catalonian condemned for life to 
the galleys in Spain ; a Swiss, who had poison- 
ed a whole family ; a monk, whose convent had 
been burned, and he himself the only one es- 
caped ; a court lady, v/ho had been betrothed 
to an embassador; and a gipsy girl, who had 
exhibited her native dances through all the 
towns of Italy. These were but a few of our 
incongruous elements, and it is with the last of 
them only I have to deal — the gipsy. Whence 
she came, or with whom, I never co’uld learn. 
I only know that one evening, from some illness 
of our first actress, we were driven upon our 
own resources to amuse the public. Each, after 
his fashion, delivered some specimen of his tal- 
ents, by repeating some well-known part, some 
oft-recited speech or song. When it came to 
her turn to appear, she evinced no fear or trep- 
idation ; she did not even ask a question of ad- 
vice or counsel, but walked boldly on, stood for 
a second or two contemplating the dense crowd 
before her, and then began a strange, wild rhap- 
sody, illustrating the events of the time. She 
told of the nobles living in splendor, ignoring 
the sorrows of the i)oor ; forgetting their very 
existence. She described their life of luxury 
and pleasure, liow they beguiled their leisure 
hours with enjoyments. She counterfeited their 
])olished intercourse. She was a duchess ; her 
ragged, tattered shawl swept the ground as a 
train, and she courtsied with a grace and digni- 
ty, the highest might have envied. She pre- 
sented her daughter to some great noble : the 
young girl was asked to sing; and then, taking 
her guitar, she sang a troubadour melody, and 
with a touching tenderness that bi’ought tears 


over cheeks seared and son'ow-worn. Her aim 
was evidently to throw over the haughty exist- 
ence of a hated class the softened light of a 
home — to show that among that proud order the 
same sympathies lived and reigned, the same 
affections grew, the same joys and griefs ])re- 
vailed. Therein lay the power of vengeance. 

‘ They despise and reject you !’ cried she, ‘ thqy 
hold themselves apai-t from you, as beings of 
another destiny ; of all this fair world contains 
they will not share with you, save in the air and 
sunlight ; and yet their passions are your pas- 
sions — their hates, loves, and jealousies are all 
your own. All their wealth teaches no new af- 
fection, all their civilization can stifle no old 
pang. If you be like them then in all these, 
why not resemble them in their cruelties ? Down 
with them! down with them!’ she cried, ‘for 
the brand to burn, and the axe to cleave.’ She 
shrieked the wild scream of an incensed popu- 
lace. The chateau was attacked on every side 
— but why do I continue ? The terrible roar of 
the famished crowd before her is still in my 
ears, as she sank dying on the stage, the mar- 
tyred girl of the people, pouring out her blood 
for her brethren. As the curtain fell I rushed 
forward to raise her; she was fainting. The 
emotion w'as not all unreal. I had seen her a 
hundred times before ; we used to salute each 
other as wo met, and, perhaps, exchange a word 
or two; and though struck by her uncommon 
beauty, I only deemed lier one of those unhap- 
])y shreds tliat hang on the draggled robe of hu- 
manity, without intellect or mind — of those who 
are unfortunate without pity ; but now as I lift- 
el her up, and carried her to a seat, I saw be- 
fore me the marvelous artist — oite whose gen- 
ius could conceive the highest flights of pas- 
sion, and who had powers also to portray it. 
It was some time before she came to herself ; 
her faculties seemed to wander in a sort of 
dreamy vagueness. She dropped words of Ital- 
ian, too, and muttered strange rlinnes to her- 
self. I tried to soothe her and calm her. I told 
her of the immense success she had achieA’ed, 
and that even in that rude audience there reign- 
ed a fervor of enthusiasm that would have car- 
ried them to any excesses. ‘Poor wretches,’ 
muttered she, ‘ who are insensible to real wrongs, 
and can yet be moved by a mockery of woe.’ 
This was all she said, and turned from me witk 
a gesture of aversion. Half stung by the insult 
of her manner, half wounded in the instincts of 
my class — for it is hard to forget that one was 
born noble — I stooped down, and whisi)ered in 
her ear some bitter words of reproach. She 
started like one bitten by a serpent, and stared 
at me witlnvide eyeballs and half-opened mouth. 
I saw my advantage, and used it. I told her 
tliat those she insulted were incomparably above 
the base herd she dared to place above them; 
that in self-devotion, courage, and single-heart- 
edness, the world had never yet displayed their 
equals. The perils that others encountered in 
pursuit of vengeance or plunder, were dared by 
tliem in the assertion of a noble cause and to 


96 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


avenge a glorious martyrdom. With a fierce 
look she scanned my features for above a min- 
ute, and then said, ‘I know it, and hate them 
for it.’ You might imagine that such a speech 
so uttered had made her odious to my eyes for- 
ever ; and 3"et, Gerald, from that very moment 
my heart was all her own. Some would explain 
this by saying we live in times when every hu- 
man sentiment is inverted — when, having con- 
founded right and wrong, made peace seem 
death, and anarchy a blessing — that men are 
fiiscinated by wliat should repel, and deteired 
by what should attract them. There may be 
truth in this manner of reconciling the strange 
caprices which seem to urge us even to what we 
have hitherto shown repugnance. I haA'e nei- 
ther taste nor patience for the inquiry ; enough 
for me the faet that I loved her, with an ardor 
intense as it was sudden. I will not weary you 
with any story of my passion. It was the old 
narrative of a hopeless love — affection unreturn- 
ed — a whole heart’s devotion given without the 
shadow of requital. There was not an artifice 
I did not practice to cure myself of this baleful 
infatuation. I reasoned, I pondered, I even 
prayed against it. I tried to invest her with all 
the ‘ traits’ of that ‘ canaille’ multitude I hated. 

I endeavored to believe her the very type of that 
base herd who exulted over our ruin and down- 
fall ; but no sooner did I see her, and hear her 
voice, than I forgot all my self-deceptions, and 
loved her more ardentl}', ay, more abjecth’^ than 
ever. We live in strange times, Gerald,” said 
he, with a deep sigh, “and we learn hard les- 
sons. That this poor and friendless girl of the 
jieople should des])is0 a Count de Noe, tells to 
what depths w'e have fallen.” 

Gerald listened’with deep interest to this sto- 
ry. He never doubted in his owni mind that 
this girl was Marietta, nor did he wonder at the 
fascination she exercised ; still was he careful 
to conceal this knowledge from De Noe, and 
affecting a mere curiosity in the adventure, asked 
him to continue. 

“1 have little more to tell you,” said the oth- 
er. “1 know not if mj' attentions perseeuted 
her, or that the ])romptings of a higher ambi- 
tion moved her; but she left us — some said to 
become the mistress of IVlirabeau ; others de- 
clared that Collot d’llerbois was her lover. The 
truth was soon apparent when she appeared at ' 
the Fran^ais under the name of Gabrielle. Ay, ^ 
Gerald, the great genius of the French stage — ! 
the gifted pupil of Talma — the marvelous artiste 
whose triumphs are trumpeted through Europe — j 
w'as, the other day, but the gipsy actress of the 
Trou de Taupe, as our little stage -was politely | 
named.” 

De Noe described with enthusiasm the fervor 
of admiration La Galirielle had excited ; how' | 
the foremost men of the time had offered to 
share fortune with her; that she had but to 
choose throughout France the man "who would 
be her protector — from Dumourier to Tinaiile, 
there is not one would not make her his v.ife 
to-moiTow. 


“I see,” added he, “that you account all 
this exaggeration on my part. Well, there is 
happily a way to test the faithfulness of m3' re- 
port.” 

“How so?” 

“To-morrow evening is Madame Roland’s 
night of reception. You have heard of her as 
the great leader of the advanced reformers — 
they who would strip the nation of every thing 
to clothe it in rags of their ow’n pattern. Come 
until me there; I w'ill present you as a young 
friend from the provinces, or better still, an ex- 
ile fled from Italian tATannvn You will meet 
the most distinguished men of that extreme 
party ; 3'ou will hear their sentiments and their 
hopes. A stray phrase about despotism — a 
passing word of execration on kingly rule — will 
be enough to make you free of the guild, and 
\’Ou will not fail to glean information from them. 
At all events, there is a great chance that you 
may see ‘ Gabrielle ;’ she rareh' misses one of 
these evenings, and 3-011 will see her in the 
sphere she loves best to move in, and w-here 
her influence is unbounded. It ma3- be she u ill 
give me leave to present 3-ou.” 

“I will not ask so much,” said Gerald, with 
an affected humiliti'. 

“You can not say so till 3-011 have seen her,” 
cried the other. “I tell 3-011, Gerald, that the 
men whose pride w-oiild scorn the notice of 1-03-- 
alty, would kneel w'ith devotion to do her hom- 
age. She is not one of those whose eminence 
is a recognized conventionalit3-, but one whose 
sway is an indisputable influence, greater, as 
she is, in real life than when depicting imagin- 
ary sorrows ; and then that wondrous gift, the 
heritage of her gipsy blood, perhaps, heightens 
the power she possesses to something almost ter- 
rible.” 

“Of what do 3-011 speak?” asked Gerald, 
eagerl3-. 

“ I scarcely knoAv how or what to call it. It 
savors of the old Egyptian art called ‘ fate read- 
ing.’ I am skej)tical enough on most things ; 
and had I not seen with my C3'cs, and heard 
with my ears, I had scouted the A-ery thought 
of such revelations.” 

“And Avhat have you seen ?” 

De Noe paused for a fcAv seconds, and in a 
A-oice slightly tremulous for agitation, said : “ I 
will tell you Avhat I myself Avitnessed. It Avas 
one night late at Madame Roland’s: the com- 
pany had all gone, save the Gabrielle, Brissot, 
Guidet, and m3-self, and Ave only Avaited for 
carriages to fetch us away, as the rain Avas fall- 
ing in torrents. The Gabrielle, shaAvled and 
muffled, ready to depart, seated herself in the 
antechamber, and refusing all entreaties to re- 
turn to the saloon, remained in a sort of rcA-erie, 
Avith closed eyes and clasped hands — the atti- 
tude bespeaking one Avho Avould not be disturb- 
ed. Madame Roland said it AA-as an ‘extase,’ 
and Avould not suffer any one to speak. After 
a long pause, during Avhich her countenance Avas 
perfectly motionless, she sloAvly raised her arm 
and pointed with her finger toAvard one corner 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


97 


of tlie mom. ‘ Tlmvc, wliispered she, in 

a lo.v voice, ‘what a munber of them! there 
arc more than fifty ; and sec, they are saddling 
more ! The black one will not let himself be 
bridled. Ah ! he has kicked tlie groom ; poor 
fellow ! they are carrying him away. Hush ! 
take care, take care, or the secret will be out. 
Silly man,’ said she, with a mocking smile, ‘he 
would paint’out the arms, as if any one could 
be deceived by such -a cavalcade.’ At this, 
Brissot whispered in my ear: ‘It is the royal 
stable that she secs. I will soon test the truth 
of this vision ;’ and he stepped unnoticed from 
the room. He had not gone many minutes, 
when with a long-drawm sigh, she opened her 
eyes and looked about her. ‘ How late my car- 
riage is to-night,’ said she, to IMadame Roland, 
‘ and how ashamed am I to keej) you up to such 
an hour!’ While Madame Roland answered 
her in tones of kindness and aifeciion, 1 watched 
the Gabrielle closely. There was not a line in 
that pale face that indicated the slightest emo- 
tion — perhaps the most marked expression was 
a look of weariness and e.xhaustion. At length 
the carriage arrived, and she drove away. We, 
however, all remained, for Brissot had promised 
me to return, and I told them whither he had 
gone. It Avas past two Avhen he came back, 
pale as death, and covered with a cold perspira- 
tion. ‘It is as she said,’ cried he, in terror: 
‘ two commissaries have brought the news to 
Bailly that the king was about to fly to l)c Bou- 
illy’s camp; and all the horses at Versailles 
were ready for the start. Tavo hundred mount- 
od royalists Avere in the Cour Avhen the commis- 
saries arrived.’ I could tell you of other and 
more striking scenes than this,” said Do Noe: 
“some are yet unaccom])lished ; but I believe 
in them as I believe in my own existence.” 

Gerald sat without uttering a Av.ard for some 
time. At last he said, “ You have given me a 
great curiosity to see your jiriestess, if I could 
but do so unobserved.” 

“Nothing is easier. Come early to-morroAv 
evening; and I Avill take care, after your j.'re- 
sentation to the hostess, to secrete you Avhere 
none Avill remark you.” 

“ I agree, then, and will ask you to come and 
fetch me at the proper hour.” 

“Remember, Gerald, that in your dress you 
must adopt the mode of the Jacobins.” 

“Marat himself could not be more accurate 
in costume than you will find me,” said Gerald, 
as he squeezed his friend’s hand to say adieu. 


CHAPTER XL 

A RECEPTION AT MADA3IE ROEAND’S. 

If it be matter of Avonderment that, at such 
a time as avc now speak of, De Noe should luiA-e 
opened his heart thus freely to one he had never 
met before, the simple explanation lies in the 
fiict that periods of “ espionage” are j i-ecisely 
those AAdicn men make the rashest confedera- 
G 


cies. Wearied and Avorn out, as it Averc, by 
everlasting chicanery and trick, they seize Avith 
avidity on the first occasion that ])i eseiits itself 
to relieve the Aveight of an OA'crburdened heart. 
To feel a sense of trust is sufficient to make 
them reveal their most secret feelings; and it 
Avas thus that De Noe no sooner found himself 
alone Avith Gerald than he told him the Avholc 
story of his loA-e. 

Gerald not only read his moti\’es aright, but 
saAv also something of the man himself. He 
perceived in him a type of a class by no means 
unfrequent at the time — royalists by birth and 
instinct, and yet so strij)ped of ail the prestige 
of their once condition, and so destitute of hope, 
that they really lived on the contingency of each 
day, not knowing by Avhat stratagem the mor- 
row Avas to be met, nor to what straits future 
fate might subject them. Besides this, he saAV 
hoAV the sup] orters of the “cause” had gradu- 
ally degenerated from the great names and no- 
bles of France to men of ruined hopes and 
blasted fortunes, AA'hose intrigues Avere con- 
ceiA’ed in the loAvest places, and carried on by 
the meanest associates. The more he reflected 
on these things, the more Avas he conA’inced 
that Mirabeau Avas right Avhen he said the “Rev- 
olution Avas a fire that must burn out.” 

“And hoAV long Avill the flames last?” cried 
he to himself ; “ they Avill not assuredly be ex- 
tinguished in my time. The great convulsions 
of nations Avill bear proportion to the vast ma- 
terials they deal w'ith. France Avill not rally 
from this shock for half a century to come ; and 
ere that I shall have passed aAvay.” 

When doubt or despondency Aveighed upon 
his mind, all the crafty reasoning of Mirabeau, 
and all the sensual teachings of Rousseau, came 
freshly to his memory. They told him of a 
Avorld of conflict and struggle, but also a Avorld 
of voluptuous jileasnre and abandonment. They 
sneered at the ideal pretexts men called, loyalty 
and fidelity, and they counseled the enjoyment 
of the jnesent as the only true ])hilosophy. 
“Tell me you are sure of being alone to-mor- 
row,” said Diderot, “and I Avill listen to hoAV 
you mean to sj end it.” Like evil spirits that 
love the nigbt, these dark thoughts Avere sure 
to seek him in his hours of gloomy depression. 

There Avas, Avith all this, a sense of pique, as 
he compared his own i)osition with that Avhich 
Marietta had already Avon for herself. “ We 
started together in the race,” thought he, “and 
see Avhere she has distanced me ! That poor 
friendless girl is already a social influence and 
a pOAver, Avhile I am a mere hanger-on of men, 
Avho use me in dangers that show hoAv little they 
regard me. What rare abilities mAist she pos- 
sess! What a maiwelous insight into the hu- 
man heart and all its A’aried Avorkings ! IIoav 
ingeniously, too, has she contrived to inter- 
AA^eave, Avith her dramatic pOAver, the stranger 
and more mysterious Avorkings of a supernat- 
ural influence ! Hoav far is she the dupe of her 
oAvn deceptions?” This Avas a thought not eas- 
ily soh'ed, knoAving her Avell as he did, amj 


98 


GERALD FITZGERALD. 


knowing how often she was the slave of her own 
passionate impulses. “I will see her to-night 
with my own eyes, and mayhap be able to read 
her aright.” 

The receptions of Madame Roland were 
among the “events” of the day. They were 
the rendezvous of all that was most advanced 
and extravagant in republicanism. Thorough- 
ly true-hearted and single-minded herself, she 
was rapidly attracted to those men who declaim- 
ed against courts and courtly vices, and sin- 
cerely believed that virtue only resided beneath 
lowly roofs and among narrow fortunes. Her 
sincere enthusiasm — the genuine ardor of a 
character that had no duplicity in it — added to 
considerable personal charms, gave her a vast 
influence in the society wherein she moved. 
She was not strictly handsome, but had a face 
of extreme delicacy, and capable of expression 
the most refined and captivating; but her voice 
w^as the spell which, it is said, never failed to 
fascinate those who heard it. 

In the management of this marvelous instru- 
ment of captivation was, perhaps, the solitary 
evidence of any thing like study or artifice 
about her. She knew how to attune and mod- 
ulate it to perfection ; and even they who pro- 
nounced her conversational powers as inferior 
to Madame de Stael’s, were ready to confess 
that the melody and softness of her utterance 
gave her an unquestionable advantage. Mar- 
ried to a man more than double her age, she 
exercised a complete independence in all the 
arrangements of her household, inviting Avhom 
she pleased, bringing together in her salons in- 
gredients the most dissimilar, and representa- 
tives of classes the widest apart. 

These social experiments are occasionally 
eminently successful, peculiarities assume the 
force of contrasts, and develop more strongly 
the powers of the owners — while, in the novelty 
of the opinions expressed, each finds matter of 
interest or amusement. 

Gerald had more than once heard of these 
receptions, and was curious to witness them ; 
he wished, besides, to see some of the men 
■whom the popular wiil declared to be the great 
leaders of party, and whose legislative ability 
>vas regarded as the hope of France. 

“Do not flatter yourself that you are about 
to be struck by any intellectual display,” whis- 
pered De Noe, as he led him up the stairs. 
“For the most part you wall hear nothing but 
violent tirades against royalty, and coarse abuse 
of a society of w hich the speaker know's noth- 
ing.” 

The salons, wdiieh were small, were crammed 
with company, so that for some time Gerald had 
little other occupation than to scrutinize the ap- 
pearance of the guests, and the strange extrav- 
agances of that costume which they had come 
to assume distinctively. 

“Look yonder,” whispered De Noe, “at the 
tall dark man, like a Spaniard, with his long 
hair combed back and falling on his neck. 
That is Lanthenas. the ‘Ami de la Maison 


he lives here : were she any one else people 
would call him her lover; but ‘La Manon,’ as 
they style her, has no heart to bestow on such 
emotion ; she is with her whole soul in politics, 
and only cares for humanity when counted by 
millions.” 

“Who is the pert-looking, conceited fellow 
he is talking to?” asked Gerald. 

“That is Louvet, the great literary hero of 
the day. Seven editions of an indecent novel, 
sold in as many weeks, have made him rich as 
well as famous; and the author of ‘Faublas’ is 
now^ courted and sought after on all sides.” 

As the crowd thickened, De Noe could but 
just tell the names of the more remarkable 
characters without time for more. There was 
Felleport, a marquis by birth, but now a spy, 
and libelist of the lowest class, side by side with 
Condorcet, the optimist philosopher, and Bris- 
sot, the wildest enunciator of republicanism. 
Carsu, w'ith a dozen penal sentences over his 
head, Avas talking familiarly with old Monsieur 
Roland himself, a simple-hearted old egotist, 
vain, harmless, and conceited. Yonder, enter- 
taining a group of ladies by the last scandals 
of the day, told as none but himself could tell 
them, was Gaudet, a young lawyer from Lyons, 
his dress the exaggeration of all that constituted 
the republican mode ; while looking on, and 
Avith air at once rebuking and amused, stood 
Dumont, his staid features and simple attire the 
modest contrast to the other’s finery. 

“ A young friend of mine, just come from It- 
aly, Madame,” said De Noe, suddenly perceiv- 
ing Madame Roland’s eyes fixed on Fitzgerald. 

“And ‘of us?’” said she, significantly. 

“Assuredly, Madame, or I had net dared to 
l)rescnt him,” said De Noe, 1 OAving. 

“ You must not say so, sir. Do you knoAv,” 
said she, addressing Gerald, “that it Avas onlv 
last Aveek he brought a bishop here. Monseign- 
eur de Blois.” 

“Ah! but be just, ^ladame : he had been 
degraded for immorality,” broke in De Noe, 
laughing. 

“You slfould haA^e shared his ]'enalty. Mon- 
sieur De Noe, ’’said she, half eoldly, and moved 
on. 

“ Come, Gerald, let me present you to some 
of my illustrious friends. Whom Avill you knoAv ? 
That choleric old lady there, a dismissed court 
lady, and the SAvorn enemy of the queen ; or 
her daughter, the pretty AvidoAv, ] laying trie 
trac Avitli Fabre d’Eglantine ? or sliall I intro- 
duce you to that dark-eyed beauty, Avhose foot 
you are not the first man that ever admired? 
she is, or AAms La Comtesse de Ratigiiollcs, but 
calls herself Julie Servan on her books.” 

“Why don’t you ansAver me — what are you 
thinking of? Ah, parbleu ! I see Avell enough. 
It is the Gabrielle ; and the tall, ])ale man she 
leans upon is Talma. Is not that enough of 
homage, mon cher? See hoAv they rise to let 
her j)ass. We hav^e been eourtiers in our day, 
Gerald, but tell if you ever saAV a more queenly 
presence than that.” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


90 


It was truly, as De Noe described, like the 
passage of royalty. Marietta swept by, bowing 
slightly to cither side, and by an easy gesture 
of her hand seeming half to decline, half accept, 
the honors tliat were paid her. Refusing with 
a sort of haughty indifference the seat prepared 
for her at the end of the room, she moved on 
toward a small boudoir, and was lost to Gerald’s 
view. Indeed his attention was rapidly direct- 
ed elsewhere, as a small, dark-eyed man in the 
centre of the room proceeded to entertain the 
company Avith an account of Mirabeau’s last 
moments. It was the Doctor Cabanis, who had 
tended liis sick bed with such devotional affec- 
tion, and whose real attachment had soothed 
the last sufferings of his patient. If there w^as 
something in Gerald’s estimation more than 
questionable in this exposure of all that might 
be deemed most sacred and private, the narra- 
tive was full of little details that interested him. 

The dreadful mockery by which Mirabeau 
endeavored to cheat death of his terrors, as, 
dressed, perfumed, and esscnced, he lay upon 
his last bed, all surrounded with flowers, was 
told with a thrilling minuteness. Through all 
the assumed calm, through all the acted phi- 
losophy, there crept out the agonizing eagerness 
for life, that CA^cn his dissimulation could not 
smQther. His incessant questioning as to this 
symptom or that — Avhether it indicated good or 
evil — the intense anxiety Avith Avhich he scru- 
tinized the faces around his bed, to read the 
thoughts their Avords belied — Averc all related, 
and, strangely enough, assumed to imply that 
they Avere the last desires of a patriot, Avho only 
longed for life to serve his country. Of those 
AA'ho listened, many doubted the honesty and 
good faith of his cliaractcr ; some thought him 
a Royalist in disguise ; some deemed him a 
liikcAvarm patriot ; some even regarded him as 
so destitute of principle, that his professions 
AA'erc good for notliing ; and yet amid all these 
disparaging estimates, they regarded this death- 
bed, Avhere no consolations of religion Avere 
breathed, Avherc no murmur of prayer Avas heard, 
nor one supplication for mercy raised, as a glo- 
rious triumph ! It Avas to then' eyes the dawn- 
ing of that transcendent briglitness Avhich Avas 
to succeed the long night of priestcraft and su- 
perstition ; and however ready to cavil at his 
doctrines or dispute his thcoides, there AA^as bnt 
one voice — to honor him Avho Avith his last breath 
had defied the Church. 

“ Ah, que e’est beau !” “ Ah, que e’est mag- 

nifique !” Avere tlie mutterings on OA'cry side. 
One only circumstance detracted in any AA'ay 
from the effect of these revelations ; it Avas, that 
he Avho made them momentarily gave vent to 
his feelings and shed tears. This homage to 
human frailty jarred upon the classic instincts 
of the assembly. It was an ignoble Aveakness, 
unAVorthy of such a theme, and in a tone of 
stern rebuke, Fabre d’Eglantine interrupted the 
speaker, and said, 

“ Your grief is unbecoming, sir; such sorroAV 
insults the memory you mean to lialloAv! If 


you would learn how the death of Mirabeau 
should be accepted, go yonder and you Avill see.” 
He pointed as he spoke toward the boudoir, and 
thither Avith a common impulse the croAvd noAV 
moved. 

A Avarning gesture from Talma, as he stood 
in the doorAv-ay, and Avith uplifted hand mo- 
tioned silence, arrested their steps, and aAve- 
struck by the imposing attitude of one Avhose 
slightest gesture Avas eloquent, they halted. 
Mixed in the throng, Gerald could barely catch 
a glimpse of the scene beyond. He could, 
hoAvever, perceive that IMarietta Avas lying in a 
sort of trance ; a croAvn of ‘ ‘ immortelles” that she 
had been weaving had fallen from her hand, 
and lay at her feet ; her hair, too, had burst its 
bands, and fell in large AA-aving masses over her 
neck and arms ; the faintest trace of color mark- 
ed her cheeks, and sufficed to sIioav that she had 
not fainted. 

Lanthenas laid his finger softly on her Avrist, 
and in a cautious Avhisper said, “The pulse is 
intermittent, the ‘acces’ will be brief.” 

“We Avere talking of the death of Caesar,” 
said Talma, “Avhen the attack came on. She 
Avould not haA'e it that Brutus Avas a patriot. 
She tried to shoAV that in such natures — stern, 
cold, and self-denying — patriotism can no more 
take root than love. I asked her then, if Ga- 
briel Requetti Avere such a man” — 

“Hush! she is about to speak,” broke in 
Madame Roland. 

A few soft murmuring sounds escaped Mari- 
etta’s lips, and her fingers moved convulsiA^ely. 

“What is it she says,” cried Louvet, “of 
crime and poison ?” 

“Hush! listen.” 

“Examine Comps,” muttered she, “he knoAA^s 
all.” 

^‘It is Mirahean’s secretary she speaks of,” 
said LouA'et : “he committed suicide last night.” 

“ No ; he is not dead, though his Avound may 
proA'e fatal,” said Cabanis. 

“He Avill Ih’-e,” said Marietta, solemnly, and 
then seemed to sink into a deep stupor. 

“Yes, trust me, I Avill tell him,” cried she, 
suddenly, Avith a voice as assured, and an ac- 
cent as firm, as though aAvake. “Come here 
and let me Avhisper it.” 

One after another bent doAvn beside the conch, 
but she repulsed them sharply, and Avith a half 
angry gesture motioned them aAvay. 

Madame Roland knelt doAvn and took ^ler 
hand, but Avith the same abrupt movement the 
other pushed her aAvay, muttering, “No, not 
you — not you.” 

Again and again did theyAvho knew her best 
present themselves, but Avith the same ill suc- 
cess. Some she drove rudely back, to others 
she made a sign to retire. 

“ Mayhap, the person is not present that you 
Avish for,” said Madame Roland, softly. 

“He is here,” said she, gently. 

Name after name of those around did Ma- 
dame Roland Avhisper, but all Avithout avail. 
At last, as Langres presented himself, Marietta 


ICO 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


turned witli a sort of aversion from. him, and 
said, 

“I am in search of a prince, and you bring 
me a butcher.” 

This insulting speech was not heard without 
a smile by some who knew this man’s origin, 
and detested the coarse ruffianism of his ad- 
dress. 

“Farbleau, Madame! if you want princes 
you must go and seek them at the Fran^ais,” 
said Langre's, angrily, as he dropped back into 
the crowd. 

Meanwhile, impelled by a strong desire to 
test the reality of her vision, Gerald made his 
way through the throng, and dropping on one 
knee, took her hand in his own. 

A start and a faint exclamation — half sur- 
prise, half joy — broke from her, as she felt his 
touch. She passed her hand over his face, and 
through his long hair, and then bending down, 
kissed him on the forehead. She whispered a 
few words rapidly in his ear, and sank back 
exhausted. 

“ She has fainted ! Bring water quickly,” 
cried Lanthenas. 

For a few minutes every attention was direct- 
ed toward her ; and it was only as she showed 
signs of recovery, some one asked, 

‘ ‘ What has become of De Noe and his friend ?” 

They were gone ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ LA GRUE.” 

When Gerald gained the street, it was to 
find it crammed with a dense mob, whose wild 
cries and screams filled the air. No sooner was 
he perceived by some of the multitude than a 
hundred yells saluted him, with shouts of “Down 
with the aristocrat ; down with the tyrant, who 
insults tlie fi iend of the people.” It was a mob 
who, in fervor of enthusiasm for Mirabeau’s 
memory, had closed each of the theatres in 
succession, dispersed all meetings of public fes- 
tivity, and even invaded the precincts of private 
houses, to dictate a more becoming observance 
toward the illustrious dead. Few men could 
bear such prescription less patiently than Fitz- 
gerald. The very thought of being ruled and 
directed by the “canaille” was insupportably 
offensive, and he drove back those who rudely 
pressed upon him, and answered with contempt 
their words of insult and outrage. 

“Who is it that insults the majesty of the 
people?” cried one ; “let us hear his name.” 

“It is Louvet” — “It is Plessard” — “It is 
Lestocq” — “It is that miserable Custine,” — 
shouted several together. 

“ You are all wrong. I am a stranger, whose 
name not one of you have ever heard — ” 

“A spy ! an emissary of Pitt and Cobourg !” 

“I am a foreigner, with whose sentiments 
you have no concern. I do not obtrude my 
opinions upon you.” 


“What do we care f>,r tliat?” slicuteJ a deep 
voice. “ Yoii have dared to offend the most 
sacred sentiments of a nation, and to riot in a 
festive- orgie while we weep over the death-bed 
of a patriot.” 

“ A la Grue ! a la Grue !” screamed the wild 
mass, in a yell of passion. 

Now the Grue was an immense crane, used 
in some repairs of the Pont Neuf, and which 
still held its place at the approach to the bridge. 
It was here that a sort of public tribunal held 
its nightly sittings, by the light of a gigantic 
lantern, suspended from the crane ; and which, 
report alleged, had more than once given way 
to a very different pendant. It is certain that 
two men, taken in the act of robbery, had been 
hanged by the sentence of this self-constituted 
tribunal, which, in open defiance of the author- 
ities, continued to assemble there. The cry, 
“'A la Grue! a la Grue!” had, therefore, a 
dreadful significance; and there was a terrible 
import in the savage roar of the mob, as they 
ratified the proposal. 

“We will try him fairly. He shall be judged 
deliberately, and be allowed to speak in his own 
defense,” said several, Avho believed that tlieir 
words were those of moderation and equity. 

Powerless against the overwhelming mass, 
and too indignant to proffer one single word of 
palliation, Gerald was hunied along toward the 
quay. 

There was something singularly solemn in 
the measured tread of that vast multitude, as, 
in a mockery of justice, they marched along. 
At first not a word was spoken ; but suddenly 
a deep voice in the front rank began one of the 
popular chants of the day, the whole dense mass 
joining in the refrain. Nothing could be ruder 
than the verses, save the accents that intoned 
them ; but there was in the very roar and res- 
onance a depth that imparted a sense of force 
and power. 

We offer to our reader a rough version of the 
unpolished chant. It is only that he may more 
fully picture to his mind the characters who 
sang it. 

“ The Cour Royale has a princely hall, 

And many come there to sue ; 

But I love the sight of a stilly night. 

And the crowd beneath the Grue. 

“ No lawyers have we, in caps and bands, 

A complex work to do ; 

But some working men with homy hands, 

Are the judges beneath the Grue. 

“ Brief is our shrift, for life is brief. 

As well to me as you ; 

But we make short work of a rogue and thi«f, 

When he stands beneath the Grue. 

“ No bribes resort to our humble court. 

All is open and plain to view ; 

And the people’s voice and the people's choice. 

Are the law beneath the Grue. 

“ The Grue I the Grue ! 

I ween there are but few 
Who have hearts for hope as they see the rope 
Come down from the fatal Grue." 

As they sang, a number of voices in front of 
them took up the strain, till the crowd seemed 
to make the very air ring with their hoarse chant. 
In this way they reached the Seine, over whose 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


101 


dark and rapid flood the fatal Grue seemed to 
droop sadly. Several hundred people were as- 
sembled here, a confused murmur sliowing that 
they were engaged in conversing rather, than in 
that judicial function it was their pride to dis- 
charge. 

“A rebel against the majesty of the people, 
and the fame of its greatest martyr,” said a 
deep voice, as he announced the crime of Fitz- 
gerald, and pushed him forward to the place 
reserved for the accused. “While a nation 
humbles itself in sorrow, this man chooses the 
hour for riotous dissipation and excess. We 
met him as he issued forth from the woman 
Roland’s house, so that he can not deny the 
charge.” 

“Accused, stand forward,” said a coarse- 
looking man, in a mechanic’s dress, but whose 
manner was not devoid of a certain dignity. 
“You are here before the French people, who 
will judge you fairly.” 

“ Were I even conscious of a crime, I would 
deny your right to try me.” 

“ Young man, you do but injury to 3mursclf 
.in insulting us,” was the grave rebuke, deliver- 
ed with a calm decorum, which seemed to have 
its infl nance on Fitzgerald. 

“ Who accuses him ?” asked the judge, aloud. 

“I” — “and I’ — “and F’ — “all of us,” 
shouted a number together, followed by a burst 
of, “Let Lamarc do it; let Lamarc speak;” 
and a pale, very young man, of gentle look and 
slight tignre, came forward at the call. 

With the ease of one thoroughly accustomed 
to address public assemblies, and with an elo- 
quence evidently cultivated in very different 
spheres, the young man pronounced a glowing 
panegj'ric on Mirabeau. It was really a fine 
and scarce exaggerated appreciation of that 
great man. Haughtily disclaiming the right 
of any less illustrious than Requetti himself, to 
sit in judgment upon the excesses of his turbu- 
lent youtli, the orator even declared that it was 
in the passionate commotion' of such tempera- 
ments that grand ideas were fostered, just as 
preternatural fertilit)’’ is the gift of countries 
whei’e earthquakes and volcanoes have convulsed 
them. 

“Deplore, if you will,” cried he, “his faults, 
for his own sake ; sorrow over the terrible ne- 
cessities of a nature whose excitements must be 
sought for even in crime. Mourn over one, 
whose mysterious being demanded for mere sus- 
tenance the poisoned draughts of intemperance ; 
but for yourselves and for your own sakes, re- 
joice that the age has given 3 011 Gabriel Re- 
quetti de Mirabeau.” 

“Who is it dares to say such words as these?” 
cried a hoarse, discordant voice, as forcing his 
way through the dense mass, a small, misshapen 
figure stood forward. Though bespeaking in 
his appearance a condition considerably above 
those around him, his dress was disordered, his 
cravat awry, and his features trembling with re- 
cent excitement. As the strong light fell upon 
him, Gerald could mark a countenance whose 


features once seen were never forgotten. The 
forehead was high, but retreating ; and the e3'es 
so sunk within their sockets that their color 
could not be known, and their only expression 
a look of wolfish feiocit3" ; to this too, a hag- 
gard check, and long, lean jaw contributed. 
All these signs of a harsh and cruel nature were 
greatly heightened by his mode of speaking, for 
his mouth opened wide, exposing tw'O immense 
rows of teeth, a display which they who knew 
him well said he was inordinately vain of. 

“Is it to men and Frenchmen that any dares 
to speak thus?” yelled he, in a voice that far 
overtopped the others, and was heard far and 
wide through the crowd. “Listen to me, peo- 
ple,” screamed he again, as ascending the sort 
of bench on which the judge was seated, he 
waved his hand to enforce silence. “Kneel 
down and thank the gods, that your direst ene- 
my is dead !” 

A low murmur — it was almost like the growl 
of a wild beast — ran through the assembly; but 
such was the courage of the speaker that he 
waited till it had subsided, and then in accents 
shriller than before, repeated the same words. 
The hum of the multitude was now reduced to 
a mere murmuring sound, and he went on. It 
was soon evident how inferior the polished elo- 
quence of the other must prove, before such an 
audience, to the stormy passion of this man’s 
speech. Like the voice of a destroying angel 
scattering ruin and destruction, he poured out 
over the memory of Mirabeau, the flood of his 
invective. He reproduced the vices of his 3’’outh, 
to account for the crimes of his age, and saw 
the treason to his party explained in his false- 
hood to his friendships. There was in his words, 
and in all he said, the force of a mad mountain 
torrent, bounding wildly from crag to crag, 
sweeping all before it as it went, and yet ever 
pouring its flood deeper, fuller, and stronger. 
From a narrative of Requetti’s early life, with 
every incident of which he was familiar, he 
turned suddenly to show how such a man must, 
in the very nature of his being, be an enemy to 
the people. A noble by birth, an aristocrat in 
all his instincts, he could never have frankly 
lent himself to the cause of liberty. It was 
only a traitor he was, then, within their camp 
— he was there to learn their strength and their 
weakness — to delude them by mock concessions. 
It was, as he expressed it, by the heat of their 
own passions that he welded the fetters for their 
own limbs. 

“If you ask who should mourn this man, the 
answer is, his own order; and it is they, and 
they alone, who sorrow over the lost leader. 
Not 3'ou, nor I, nor that youth 3'onder, whom 
you pretend to arraign ; but whom 3"ou should 
honor with Avords of praise and encouragement. 
Is it not brave of him, in this hour of bastard- 
grief, that he should stand forth to tell 3'ou how 
mean and dastardly ye are ! I tell you, once 
more, that he who dares to stem the false senti- 
ments of misguided enthusiasm, has a courage 
grander than his who storms a breach. My 


102 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


friendsliip is liis own from this hour,” and as he 
said, he descended from the bench, and flung 
his arms around Fitzgerald. 

V Shouts of “Well done, Marat, bravely spok- 
en !” rent the air, and a hundred voices told 
how the current of public favor had changed its 
course. 

“Let us not tarry here, young man,” said 
jNIarat. “ Come along with me ; there is much 
to be done yet.” 

While Gerald was not sorry to be relieved 
from a position of difficulty and danger, he was 
also eager to undeceive his new ally, and avow 
that he had no sympathy with the opinions at- 
tributed to him. It was no time, however, for 
explanations, nor was the temper of the mob to 
1)0 long trusted. He therefore suffered himself 
to be led along by the friends of Marat, who, 
speedily making way for their chief, issued into 
the open street. 

“Whither now?” cried one, aloud. 

“To the Bureau — to the Bureau 1 ” said an- 
other. 

“Be it so,” said Marat. “The Ami du 
Peuple!" — so was his journal called — “must 
render an account of this night to its readers. 
I have addressed seven assemblies since eleven 
o’clock, and save that one in the Rue de Gre- 
nelle, all successfully. By the way, who is our 
friend — what is he called ? Fitzgerald — a for- 
eign name — all the better ; we can turn this in- 
cident to good account. Are Frenchmen to be 
tauglit the path to liberty by a stranger, eh, 
Favart ? That’s the key-note for your over- 
ture !” 

“ The article is written — it is half printed al- 
ready,” said Favart. “ It begins better — ‘The 
impostor is dead : the juggler who gathered your 
liberties into a bundle and gave them back to 
3'ou as fetters, is no more !’ ” 

“All, que e’est beau, that jihrase,” cried two 
or three together. 

“ I will not have it,” said Marat, impetuous- 
ly; “these are not moments for grotesque im- 
agery. Open thus : ‘ Who are the men that 
have constituted themselves the judges of im- 
mortality? Who are these, clad in shame and 
cloaked in ignominy, who assume to dispense 
the glory of a nation ? Are these mean trick- 
sters — these fawners on a corrupted court — 
these slaves of the basest tyranny that ever de- 
faced a nation’s image, to be guardians at the 
gate of civic honors ?” 

“Ah! there it is. It was Marat himself 
spoke there,” said one. 

“That was the clink of the true metal,” said 
Chaptal. 

And noAV, in the wildest vein of rhapsody, 
IMarat continued to pour forth a strange, con- 
fused flood of savage invective. For the most 
part the language was coarse and ill-chosen, 
and the reasoning faulty in the expression, but 
here and there would pierce through a phrase or 
an image so graphie or so true as actually to 
startle and amaze. It was tliese improvisations, 
caught up and reproduced by his follotvcrs, which 


constituted the leading artirles of his journal. 
Too much immersed in the active career of his 
demagogue life to s])are time for writing, he 
gave himself the habit of this high-flown and 
exaggerated style, w Inch wore, so to say, a mock 
air of composition. 

Pointing to the immense quantity of this sort 
of matter which his journal contained, Marat 
would boast to the people of his unceasing labors 
in their cause, his days of hard toil, his nights 
of unbroken exertion. He artfully contrasted a 
life thus spent with the luxurious existence of 
the pampered “rich.” Such were the first steps 
of one who journeyed aftenvard far in crime — 
such the initial teachings of one who subsequent'- 
ly helped mainly to corrupt a whole people. 

A strange impulse of curiosity to see some- 
thing of these men of whom he had heard so 
much, influenced Gerald, while he was also in 
part sw'ayed by the maiwelous force of that tor- 
rent which never ceased to flow from Marat’s 
lips. It Avas a sort of fascination, not the less 
strong that it imparted a sense of pain. 

“ I Avill see this night’s acHenture to the end,” 
said he to himself, and he went along Avith them. 

— - — , 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A SUPPEn AVITH THE “ FRIENDS OF THE 
PEOPLE.” 

There is a marvelous similarity betAveen the 
moral and the physical evils of life, Avhich ex- 
tends even to the modes by Avhich they are ] rop- 
agated. We talk of the contagion of a fcA’er, 
but Ave often forget that prejudices are infinite- 
ly more infectious. The poor man, ill-fed, ill- 
housed, ill-clad, destitute, heart-sick, and weary, 
falls A'ictim to the first epidemic that crosses his 
path. So Avith the youth of unfixed faith and 
unsettled pursuits : he adopts any creed of 
thought or opinion Avarm enough to stimulate 
his imagination and fix his ambition. IIowfeAv 
are they in -life Avho luiA'e chosen for themselA’'es 
their political convictions ; Avhat a vast majority 
is it that has adopted the impressions that float 
around them. 

The sting of an aristocratic insult sufficed in 
one memorable instance to make a patriot. It 
Avas the accidental outrage of a rabble that once 
converted a great popular leader into an ultra 
partisan of Toryism. I dare not longer con- 
tinue this theme, of Avhich the examples are 
already croAvding fast to my memory. 

The refusal of Lord Castlereagh to sit doAvn 
at dinner Avith a loAV-born guest cost his party 
the loss of the ablest popular orator and Avriter 
of the day ; and a greater than Lord Castle- 
reagh AA’ould not suffer the presentation of a 
scarcely less distinguised partisan of our OAvn 
time. 

Gerald Fitzgerald supped Avith Marat at the 
Rue de Moulins; he sat doAvn Avith Fauchet, 
Etienne, Chaptal, FaAmrt, and the rest — all 
Avriters for the Ami du Pevpie — all henchmen 
of the one great and terrible leader. 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


103 


Gcsrald had often taken his part in the wild 
excesses of a youthful origin ; he had borne a 
share in those scenes Avhere passion stimulated 
by debauch becomes madness, and where a fran- 
tic impetuosity usurps the place of all reason 
and judgment ; but it was new to him to witness 
a scene whex*e the excesses were those of minds 
worked up by the wildest flights of political am- 
bition, the frantic denunciations of political ad- 
versaries, and the maddest anticipations of a 
dreadful vengeance ! They talked before him 
with a freedom which, in that time, was rarely 
beard. They never scrupled to discuss all the 
chances of their party, and the casualties of that 
eventful future that lay before them. 

How the monarchy must full — how the whole 
social editice of France must be overthrown — 
how nobility was to be annihilated, and a new 
code of distinction created, were discussed with 
a seriousness, mingle 1 with the wildest levity. 
That the road to these changes lay through 
blood, never for a moment seemed to check the 
torrent of their speculations. Some amused 
themselves by imaginary lists of proscriptions, 
giving the names and titles of those they would 
recommend for the honors of the guillotine. 

“Every thing,” cried Guadet, “every thing 
that calls itself Duke, Marquis, or Count.” 

“Do not include the Barons, Henri, for my 
cook is of that degree, and I could not spare 
him,” cried Viennet. 

“Down with the aristocrat,” said several, “he 
stands by his order, even in his kitchen.” 

“Nay,” broke in Viennet, “I am the first of 
you all to reduce these people to their becoming 
station.” 

“Do not say so,” said Gensonne : “ the Mar- 
quis de Trilhic has been a gamekeepQi* on my 
property this year back.” 

“ Your property !” said IMarat, contemptuous- 
ly. “ Your paternal estate was a vegetable stall 
in the March j aux Bois; ar.d your ancestral 
chateau, a ro)m in the Ikiys Latin, five stories 
high.” 

“You lived at the same house, in tlic cellar, 
Marat ; and, by your own account, it was I that 
descended to know you !” 

“If he talks of property. I’ll put him in my. 
list,” said Laroche. “ He whose existence is 
secure is unworthy to live.” 

“Agrand sentiment that,” said another; “let 
us drink it :” and they arose and drained their 
glasses to the toast. 

“The Due do Damiuerre, has any one got 
him down ?” asked Guadet. 

“I have” — “and I” — “and I,” said several 
togctlier. 

“I demand a reprieve for the Duke,” said 
another. “I was at College with him at Nantes, 
and he is a good fellow, and kind-hearted.” 

“Miserable patriot,” said Guadet, laughing, 
“ that can place his personal sympathies against 
the interests of the State.” 

“Parbleu!” cried Laroche, looking over his 
neighbor’s arm. “Here is Gensonne has. got 
Robespierre’s name down!” 


“And why not? I detest him. Menard was 
right when he called him a ‘Loup cn toilette de 
ball’” 

“What a list Menard has here,” said Guadet, 
holding it up, as he read aloud. “All who 
have served the court, or whose families have, 
for the last three generations — all who employ 
court tailors, barbers, shoemakers, or armor- 
ers — ” 

“Pray add, all whose names can be traced to 
baptismal registries, or are alleged to have been 
born in wedlock,” said Lescour. “ Let us efface 
the vile aristocracy effectually !” 

“ Your sneer is a weak sarcasm,” said Marat, 
savagely. “ Menard is right : it is not man by 
man, but in platoons, that our vengeance must 
be executed.” 

“ I have an uncle and five cousins, whom, 
from motives of delicacy, I have not denounced. 
Will any one do me the favor to write, the 
Count de Rochegarde, and his sons.” 

“I adopt them with i)leasure. I wanted a 
count or two among my barons.” 

“I drink to all patriots,” said Marat, drain- 
ing his glass, and turning a full look on Fitz- 
gerald. 

“I accei)t the toast,” said Gerald, drinking. 

“And I, too,” cried Louvet, “though I do 
not understand it.” 

“By patriot, I mean one who adores liberty,” 
said Marat. 

“And hates the tyrant,” cried another. 

“For the liberty to send my enemy to the 
guillotine, I am ready to fight to-morrow,” said 
Guadet. 

“For whom, let me ask, are we to make our- 
selves hangmen and headsmen ?” cried a pale, 
sickly youth, whose voice trembled as he spoke. 
“ The furious populace will not thank you that 
you have usurped their hunting-grounds. If you 
lun down their game, they will one day turn 
and rend you!” 

“ Ah Bri^sot, are you there, with your bland 
notions stolen from Plato!” cried Guadet. “It 
is ]'leasant even to hear your flute-stop in the 
wild concei’t of our hoarse voices !” 

“As to liberty, who can define it?” exclaim- 
ed Brissot. 

“ I can,” cried Lcscour. “ The right to guil- 
lotine one’s neighbor!” 

“ Who ever understood the meaning of equal- 
ity ?” continued Brissot, unheeding him. “ Pro- 
crustes was the inventor of it!” 

“And for fraternity : what is it — who has ever 
practiced it ?” 

“Cain is the only instance that occurs to 
me,” said Guadet, gravely. 

“I drink to America,” said Marat. “May 
the infant republic live by the death of the 
mother that bore her !” 

A wild hurra followed the toast, which w'as 
welcomed with mad enthusiasm. 

“The beacon of liberty wo are lighting here, ” 
continued he, “ will be soon answered from every 
hill-top and mountain throughout Europe — from 
the snow-peaks of Norway to the olive-crowned 


104 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


heights of tlie A])cnnines — from the bleak cliffs 
of Scotland to the rocky summits of the Carpa- 
thians.” 

In a strain bombastic and turgid, but maiked 
at times by flashes of real eloquence, he launch- 
ed out into one of those rhapsodies whicli form- 
ed {he staple of his popular addresses. The glo- 
rious picture of a people free, happy, and pros- 
perous, was so mingled with a scene of vengeance 
and retribution, that the work of the guillotine 
was made to seem the chief agent of civilization. 
The social condition of the nation was described, 
in the state of a man whose life could only be 
preserved at the cost of a terrible amputation. 
The operation once over, the body would recov- 
er its functions of health and stability. This 
was the image daily reproduced, till the public 
mind grew to regard it as a truism. The no- 
blesse represented the diseased and rotten limb, 
whose removal was so imperative, and there 
were but too many circumstances which served 
to favor the comparison. 

Gerald was of an age when fervor and daring 
exercised a deeper influence than calm convic- 
tion. The men of warm and glowing impulses, 
of passionate w'ords and desperate achievements, 
are sure to exercise a powerful swa_v over the 
young, especially when they themselves are, 
from the accident of fortune, in the ]>osiiion of 
adventurers. The language he now heard was 
bold and definite : there was nothing of subter- 
fuge or concealment about it. The men who 
spoke were ready to pledge their lives to their 
words ; they were ever more w illing to fight 
than preaeh. There was, besides, a splendid 
assertion of self-devotion in their plans ; person- 
al advancement had no place in their specula- 
tions. All was for France and Frenchmen. 
Nothing for a part}'; nothing for a class. Their 
aspirations were the highest too ; the liberty 
they contended for was to be the birthright of 
every man. Brissot, beside whom Gerald sat, 
was one well adapted to captivate his youthful 
admiration. His long fair hair, his soft blue 
eyes, an almost girlish gentleness of look, con- 
trasting with the intense fervor with which he 
uttered his convictions, imparted an amount of 
interest to him that Gerald was not slow to ap- 
preciate. He spoke, besides, with — what never 
fails in its effect — the force of an intense convic- 
tion. That they were to regenerate France; 
that the nation long enslaved, corrupted and de- 
graded was to be emancipated, enlightened, and 
elevated by them, was his heartfelt belief. The 
material advantages of a gi'eat revolution to 
those who should effect it, he would not stop to 
consider. In his own phrase : “ It was not to 
a mere land flowdng with milk and honey Moses 
led the Israelites, but to a land ])romised to 
their forefathers, and to be a heritage to their 
children !” 

It is true his companions regarded him as a 
wild and dreamy enthusiast, imi)racticable in 
his notions, and too hoi)eful of humanity; but 
they wisely saw how useful such an element of 
“ optimism” was in flavoring the mass of their 


dangerous doctrines, and how the sentiments 
of such a man served to exalt the tone of their 
opinions. While the conversation went on 
around the table, the sfieakers, Avarming with 
the themes, grow'ing each moment more bold 
and more animated, Brissot turned bis atten- 
tions entirely to Fitzgerald. He not only 
sketched off to him the men around the board, 
but, in a few light touches, characterized their 
opinions and views. 

At the conclusion of a description in which 
he had spoken with the most unguarded frank- 
ness, Gerald could not help asking him how it 
was that he could venture to declare so openly 
his opinions to a perfect stranger like himself. 

Brissot only smiled, but did not answer. 

“For, after all,” continued Gerald, “I am 
here in the camp of the enemy ! I was a Roy- 
alist ; I am so still.” 

“But there are none left, mon cher ; the 
King himself is not one.” 

“Ready to die for the threne — ” 

“There is no throne; there is an cld arm- 
chair, with the gilding rubbed away!” 

“ At all events there was a right to defend — *’ 

“The right to live has an earlier date than 
the right to rule,” said Brissot, gravely; and 
seeing that he had caught the other’s attention, 
he launched forth into the favorite theme of his 
party, the wrongs of the people. Unlike the 
generality of his friends, Brissot did not dAvell 
on the vices and corruptions of the nobles. It 
was the evils of poverty he pictured ; the hope- 
less condition of those whose misery made them 
friendless. 

“If you but knew the suffering patience of 
the poor,” said he, “ the stubbornness of their 
devotion to those above them in station ; the 
tacit submission with which they accept hard- 
ship as their birthright, you would despair of 
humanity — infinitely more from men’s humility 
than from their cruelty ! We can not stir them ; 
we can not move them,” cried he. “ ‘ They are 
no w'orse off than their fathers were,’ that is 
their reply. If the hour come, however*, that 
they rise up of themselves — ” 

Once more did Gerald revert to the hardi- 
hood of sueh confessions to a stranger, when 
the other broke in, 

“Does the shipwi’ecked sailor on the raft 
hesitate to stretch out his hand to the sinking 
swimmer beside him? Come home with me 
from this, and let me speak to yon. You will 
learn nothing from these men. There is Marat 
again ! he has but one note on his voice, and it 
is to utter the cry of blood !” 

While the stormy speaker reveled wildly in 
the chaos of his incoherent thoughts, coujuiing 
up scenes of massacre and destruction, tire oth- 
ers madly applauding him, Brissot stole aAvay, 
and beckoned Gerald to follow him. 

It was daybreak ere they separated, and ns 
Gerald gained his chambers he tore the white 
cockade he had long treasured as a souvenir of 
his days of Garde du Corps, in pieces, and scat- 
tered the fragments from his window to the winds. 


105 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


CIIArTER XIV. 

THE I>E LA rREFECTUIlE.” 

Gerald had scarcely fallen asleep when he 
was aroused by a rude crash at his door, and look- 
ing up, saw the room filled with gendarmerie in 
full uniform. A man in plain black meanwhile 
approaclied the bed where he lay, and asked if 
he were called Gerald Fitzgerald. 

“A ci-devant Garde du Corps and a refugee 
too?” said the questioner, who was the substi- 
tute of the Frocureur du Hoi. “This is the 
order to arrest you, Monsieur,” said he. 

“On what charge, may I ask?” said Gerald, 
indolently. 

“It is a grave one,” said the other, in a sol- 
emn voice, while he pointed to certain words in 
the warrant. 

Gerald started as he read them, and, with a 
smile of scornful meaning, said, 

“Is it alleged that I poisoned the Count de 
Mirabeau ?” 

“You are included among those suspected 
of that crime.” 

“And was he poisoned, then?” 

“ The report of the surgeons who have exam- 
ined the body is not conclusive. There are, 
however, sufficient grounds for investigation 
and inquiry. You will see, sir, that I have told 
you as mueh as I may — perhaps more than I 
ought.” 

Left alone in his chamber that he might 
dress, Gerald proceeded to make his prepara- 
tions with becoming speed. The order com- 
mitted him to St. Felagie, a prison then reserved 
for those accused of great crimes against the 
state. Weighty as such a charge was, he felt in 
the fact of an unjust accusation a degree of cour- 
ageous energy that he had not known for many 
a previous day. In the midst of one’s self-ac- 
cusings and misgivings, an ill-founded allega- 
tion brings a, certain sense of relief: if this be 
the extent of my culpability, I may be proud 
of my conduct — is such satisfactory judgment to 
address to one’s own heart. lie would have 
felt more comfort, it is true, in the reflection, if 
he did not remember that it wms a frequent art- 
ifice of the day to accuse men of crimes of which 
they were innocent, to afford time and oppor- 
tunity to involve them in some more grounded 
charge. Many were sent to Vincennes who 
were never afterward heard of ; and what easier, 
if needed, than to dispose of one like himself, 
without family or friends. 

Though nominally committed to St. Pelagic, 
such was the crowded condition of that prison, 
that Gerald was conducted to the “Depot de la 
Prefecture” — a horrible den, into which mur- 
derers, malefactors, political offenders, and 
thieves were indiscriminately huddled, until 
time, offered the opportunity to sift and divide 
them. It was a long hall, supported on two 
ranges of stone pillars, with wooden guard-beds 
on either side, and a space technically called 
“the street” between them. Four narrow win- 
dows, close to the roof, admitted a scanty light 


into this dreary abyss, where upward of eighty 
prisoners were already confined. By a sort of 
understanding among themselves — for no other 
direction existed — the prisoners had divided 
themselves into three distinct classes, each of 
which maintained itself apart from the others. 
Such as had committed capital offenses or were 
accused of them, held the first rank, and exer- 
cised a species of general sway over all. The 
place occupied by them was called “ Le Kid 
they themselves were styled the “Birds of Pas- 
sage.” The political criminals gathered in a 
corner named “L’Opinion;” the rest, a largo 
majority, were known as “Les Ames de boue.” 

Gerald had but crossed the thresliold of this 
darksome dungeon when the door closed behind 
him, leaving him almost in total obscui ity. The 
heavy breathing of a number of people asleep, 
and the low mutterings of others suddenly 
awakened, showed him that the place was 
crowded, although as yet he could distinguish 
nothing. Not venturing to stir from the jtlace 
he occupied, he waited patiently, till, by the 
cold, gray light of breaking day, he could look 
at the scene before him. He was not, suffered 
to indulge this contemplation long, for as the 
sleepers awoke and beheld him, a general cry 
was raised to pass him on the Prevot to be 
classed. Gerald obeyed the order, moving slow- 
ly up the narrow “street” to the end of the hall, 
where sat or rather lay an old man, w'hose imn 
prisonment dated upward of forty years back. 
He was i)erfectly blind, and so crippled by age 
and rheumatism as to be utterly helpless; and 
yet, with these, his voice'was loud, full, and com- 
manding, and its tones resounded throughout 
the length and breadth of the prison. After a 
brief routine address, informing the new' arrival 
that for the due administration (.f that discipline 
which all societies of men demanded, he must 
pledge obedience to the laws of the place, and 
after duly promising the same, and swearing it 
by placing a handful of straw upon his head, 
Gerald was told to be seated wdiilc he Avas in- 
_ terrogated. 

“Not know where you Avere born,” said the 
Prevot, “and yet 3'ou call yourself noble ! Bo 
it so; and noAv your charge — what is it?” 

“They accuse me of haAung poisoned Mira- 
bcau.” 

“ And Avould that be called a crime ?” said 
one. 

“ Against Avhom, I Avould like to knoAV, could 
that be an offense,” said another. “Not against 
the King, Avhom he had deserted, nor against 
the people AA'hom he betrayed.” 

“Silence! — silence in the court!” said the 
Prevot ; then, addressing Gerald, he Avent on : 
“With Avhat object did you kill him ?” 

“I did not poison him — I am innocent,” said 
Gerald, calmhL 

“ So are Ave all,” said the Prevot, devoutly — 
“spotless as the snoAvdrift. Who Avas she that 
persuaded you to act? — tell us her name.” 

“There Avas no act, and could have been no 
suggestcr.” 


106 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“Young man,” said the Prevot, solemnly, 
“ we know of but one capital crime here — that is 
concealment. Be frank, therefore, and fearless. ” 

“I can not be sure, if I had done this crime, 
that I would have confessed it hei'e, but as I 
have not, or ever imagined it, I repeat to you 
cnee more, I know nothing of it.” 

With an acuteness perfectly wonderful at his 
age, and with an intellect that retained much 
of its former subtlety — for the Prevot had been 
the first lawyer at the Lyons bar — he questioned 
Gerald as to vvdiat had led to the accusation. 
Partly to display his own powers of cross-exam- 
ination, and partly that the youth’s answers im- 
parted an interest to his story, he prolonged the 
inquiry considerably. Nor was Gerald indis- 
posed to speak openly about himself; it was a 
species of relief out of the dreary isolation in 
which he passed his days. 

To one point the old man would, however, 
continue to recur without success: whether 
some womanly influence had not swayed him — 
whether his heart had not been touched, and 
some secret s])ring of love had given the im])ulse 
to his character — was still a mystery. 

“No man,” said the Prevot, “ever lived as 
you allege. He who reads Jean Jacques lives 
like Rousseau ; he who pores over Diderot acts 
the fatalist.” 

“Enough of this,” cried a rough, rude voice. 
“Is he of us or not?” 

It was a “Bird of Passage” that spoke, im- 
patient for the moment when the new-comer 
should pay his entrance fee. 

“He is not of you, be assured of that,” said 
the Prevot, “ and for the present his place shall 
be “L’Opinion.” 

By chance — a mere chance — a death on the 
day before had left a vacant berth in that sec- 
tion, and thither Gerald was now with due so- 
lemnity conducted. 

If his present associates were the “ best of the 
bad” around him, they were still far from being 
to his taste. They were the lowest emissaries 
of every party — the agents employed for all pur- 
poses of espionage and corruption. They af- 
fected a sort of fidelity to the cause they served 
while sober, but once filled with wine, avowed 
their utter indifference to every party, as they 
avowed that they took bribes from each in turn. 
IMany, it ’? true, had moved in the better classes 
of society, were well-mannered and educated ; 
but even through these there ran the same vein 
of profligacy, a tone of utter distrust, and a skep- 
ticism as to all good here and hereafter. 

One or two of these remembered to have seen 
Gerald in his days of Garde du Corps, and were 
more than disposed to connect him with the 
scandals circulated about the Queen ; others in- 
clined to regard him as a revolutionist in the 
garb of the court party; none trusted him, and 
he lived in a kiml of haughty estrangement from 
all. The Prevot, indeed, liked him, and would 
talk with him for hours long; and to the old 
man himself the cnmi'anionship seemed a boon. 
He now learned for the first time a true account 


of the great changes “ without,” as he called the 
world, and heard with an approach to accuracy 
the condition in which France then stood. 

The sense of indignation at a groundless 
charge, the cruelty of an imjnisonim-nt upon 
mere suspicion, had long ceased to Avcigh upon 
Fitzgerald, and a dreamy apathy, the true leth- 
argy of the prison, stole over liim. To lie half 
sleeping on his hard bed, to sit crouched down, 
gazing listlessly at the small patch of sky seen 
through the window, to spell over the names 
scratched by former prisoners cn the plaster, to 
count for the thousandth lime the fissures in the 
damp walls — these filled bis days. His nights 
were drearier still, tormented vith distressing 
dreams, to be dispelled only by the gloom of 
awaking in a dungeon. 

At intervals of a week or two, orders would 
come for this or that prisoner to be delivered to 
the care of the Marshal of the Temple — none 
knew for what, though all surmised the worst, 
since not one was seen to return ; and so time 
s])od on, month after month, death and removal 
doing their work, till at last Gerald was the old- 
est detenu in the section of “I’Opinion.” 

The fatuous vacuity of his mind was such 
that though he heard the voices around him, 
and even tried at times to follow what they said, 
he could collect nothing of it : sometimes the 
sounds would simply seem to weary and fatigue 
him — they acted as some deep monotonous noise 
might have done on a tired brain ; sometimes 
they would cause the most intense irritation, 
exciting him to a sense of anger, he could with 
difficulty control ; and at others again, they 
Avould overcome him so thoroughly with soitow, 
that he would weep for hours. Hoav time pass- 
ed, what he had himself been in former years, 
where and how and with Avhom he lived, only 
recurred to him in short fitful passages, like the 
scenes of some moving panorama, present for a 
moment and then lost to view. He would fancy, 
too, th.nt he had many distinct and separate ex- 
istences, as many deaths ; and then marvel to 
himself in which of these states he was at that 
moment. 

His wild talk ; his absurd answers when ques- 
tioned; the incoherent things he would say, 
stamped him among his felloAv-])risoners, as one 
bereft of reason ; nor was there, to all seeming, 
much injustice in the suspicion. If the chance 
mention of some name he once knew would start 
and arouse him, his very obseiwations would 
appear those of a wandering intellect. Since 
he seemed to have been acquainted with persons 
the most opposite and incongruous, and it even 
became a jest — a sort of prison “ ])laisanterie” 
— to ask him whether he was not intimate with 
this man or that, mentioning ))ersons the least 
likely for him ever to have met ? 

“ There goes another of your friends, Maitre,” 
said one to him: “they have guillotined Bris- 
sot this morning : you surely knew him, he ed- 
ited the Droit du Peuple." 

“Yes, I knew him. Poor Brissot!” said 
Gerald, with a sigh. 


“THE CHEV^ALIER.” 


107 


“What was he like, Maitrc : was he short 
and thick, witli a beard like mine?” 

“No, he was fair and gentle looking.” 

“Parbleu! that was a good guess: so he was.” 

“And kind-hearted as he looked,” muttered 
Gerald. 

“He died with Guadet, Gensonne, Louvet, 
and four other Maratists. You have seen most 
of them, I’m sure?” 

“Yes. Guadet and Gensonne, I remember; 
I forget Louvet. Had he a scar on his temple ?” 

“ That he had ; it was a sabre cut in a duel,” 
cried one, who added in a Mhisper, “he’s not 
the mad fool you take him for.” 

“You used to be Gabriel llequetti in times 
past ?” asked another, gravely. 

“No — that is — not I; but — I forgot how it 
Avas — we were — I’ll remember it by-and-by.” 

“ Wlnq vou told me a fcAv da vs back that vou 
were Mirabeau.” 

“No, no,” said another, “he said he was 
Alfieri— I was present.” 

“ iMirabeau’s hair was long and wiry. It 
was not soft like mine,” said Gerald. “ When 
he shook it back, he used to say, ‘ I’ll shoAV 
them the boar’s head.’ ” 

“Yes. He’s right, that was a favorite say- 
ing of Mirabeau’s,” whispered another. 

“And they are all gone now,” said Gerald, 
with a deep sigh. 

“Ay, Maitre, every man of them. All the 
Girondins ; all the friends of liberty ; all the 
kind spirits Avho loved men as their brothers ; 
and the guillotine better than the men.” 

“And Vergniaud and Fonfrede, you surely 
knew them ?” 

Gerald shook his head. 

“It was your friend Robespierre sent them 
to the knife.” 

Gerald started, and tried to understand Avhat 
Avas said. 

“Ask him about La Gabrielle,” Avliisj^ercd 
another. 

“What of La Gabrielle ? she Avas Marietta,” 
cried Gerald, wildly. 

“ She might have been. We only knew her 
as she figured before our own eyes. In No- 
vember last she Avas the Goddess of Reason.” 

“No, no; I deny it,” cried another; “La 
Gabrielle had fled from France before.” 

“She Avas the ‘Goddess of Reason,’ I re- 
peat,” said the other. “ She that used to blusk 
.scarlet Avhen they led her out, after the scene, 
to receiA'e the plaudits of the audience, stood 
shameless before the mob on the steps of the 
Pantheon !” 

“ And I tell you her name was Maillard ; it 
Avas ca=y enough to mistake her for La Gabri- 
elle, for she had the same long, Avaving, light- 
brown hair.” 

“Marietta’s hair was black as night,” mut- 
tered Gerald; “her complexion, too, Av^as the 
deep oliA'e of the fitr south, and of her OAvn pe- 
culiar race. I ought to know,” added he, 
aloud; “A\'e wandered many a pleasant mile 
together through the A^alleys of the Apennines.” 


The glance of compa.ssionate j ity they turn- 
ed upon him showed how they read these re- 
membrances of the j ast. 

“Which of you lias dared to speak ill of 
her?” cried he, suddenly, as a gleam of intelli- 
gence shot through his rcA'eric. “Was it you ? 
— or you — or you ?” 

“Far be it from yi/c,” said Courtel, a young 
debauchee of the Jacobin party ; “1 admire her 
much. She has limbs for a statuary to match ; 
and though this poor picture gives but a sorry 
idea of such perfections, it is not all unlike I” 

As he spoke, he dreAv forth a coarse ])iiiit of 
the “Goddess of Reason,” as she stood unveil- 
ed, almost unclad, before the jiopnlace. 

Gerald caught but one glance at the ribald 
liortrait, and then Avith a spring he seized and 
tore it into atoms. The action seemed to 
arouse in him all the dormant passion of his 
nature; for in an instant he clutched Courtel 
by the throat, and tried to strangle him. It 
Avas not Avithout a soA'ere struggle that he was 
rescued by the others, and Gerald thrown back, 
bruised and beaten, on his bed! 

From this unlucky hour forth Gerald’s com- 
rades held themselves all aloof from him. He 
was no longer in their eyes the poor and harm- 
less object they had believed, but a Avild and 
dangerous maniac. His life henceforth AA'as 
one unbroken solitude ; not a Avord of kindness 
or sympathy met his car. The little fragments 
of cheering tidings others interchanged, none 
shared Avith him, and he sank into a state of al- 
most sleep. Nor Avas it a small privilege to 
sleep, Avhile millions around him Avere keeping 
their orgic of blood. AVhen the cries of the 
dying and the shouts of vengeance Avere min- 
gled in one long, loud strain, and the monoto- 
nous stroke of the guillotine never ceased its 
beat. Sleep Avas, indeed, a boon, Avhen the 
AA'akeful ear and eye had naught but sounds and 
sights of horror before them. What a blessing 
not to svatch the street as it trembled before the 
fatal car, groaning under its croAvd of victims. 
To see them, Avith drooped heads and hanging 
arm.s, swaying as the rude plank shook them, 
not lifiing an eye upon that cruel mob, Avhose 
ribald cries assailed them, and avIio had Avords 
of welcome but for 1dm Avho folloAvcd on a low, 
red-colored cart, pale, stern, and still — the 
headsman. The thirsty earth Avas so drunk 
Avith carnage that, in the Avords of one of the 
Convention, it Avas said, “We shall soon fear 
to drink the Avater of the Avells, lest it be mixed 
Avith the blood of our brothers !” 

Out of this deep slumber, in Avhic h no meas- 
ure of time AA'as kept, a loud and deafening 
shock aroused him. It Avas the force of the 
mob, who had broken in the ])rison doors, and 
proclaimed liberty to the captive.'^. Robespierre 
had been guillotined that morning ; the “Ter- 
ror” was over, and all Paris, in a ])hren.sy of 
delight, aAVoke from its terrible vision of blood, 
and dared to breathe Avith freedom. The burst 
of joy that broke forth Avas like the Avild cry of 
delight uttered by a reprieved criminal. 


108 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


Few in tliut vast multitude had not more 
S3mipathy with that jo}' than Gerald Fitzgerald. 
Of the prisoners there was not except himself 
Avho had not either home or friends to welcome 
him. Manv were met as they issued forth, and 
clasped in the arms of loving relatives. Moth- 
ers and Avivcs, sisters and brothers rvere there; 
children sprang wildly to their fathers’ breasts, 
and Avoi ds of love and bios- ing Averc heard on 
every side. 

“ AVho is that yonder — the poor, sickly youth, 
that creeps along by himself, Avith his head 
doAvn ?” Avhispered a happy girl at her brother’s 
side. 

“That is the ‘Maitre Fou!”’ said he, care- 
lessly ; “I scarcely think he knoAvs wdiither he 
is going.” 



CHAPTER XV. 

THE I'ERB MASSOXI IN IlIS CELL. 

Let us noAV return to Rome. The Pere Mas- 
soni sat alone in his small studv ; a single lamp, 
covered Avith a shade, stood beside him, throw- 
ing its light only on his thin, attenuated figure, 
dressed in the long robe of black serge, and but- 
toned to the very feet. One Avasted, blue-vein- 
ed hand rested on his knee, the other AA^as in the 
breast of his robe. It was a Avild and stormy- 
night Avithout : long, SAVOoping dashes of rain 
came from time to time against the AvindoAvs, 
Avith blasts of strong Avind borne over the wide 
expanse of the Campagna. The blue lightning, 
too, flashed through the half-darkened room, 
Avhile the thunder rolled unceasingly amid the 
stupendous ruins of ohl Rome. For a long 
time had the Pere sat thus motionless, and to 
all seeming, in expectancy-. Some books and 
an open map lay on the table beside him, but 
he ne\-er turned to them, but remained in this 
selfsame attitude; only changing Avhen he bent 
his head to listen more attentively to the noises 
Avithout. At length he arose, and passing into 
a small octagonal toAver that opened from the 
corner of his chamber, closed the door behind 
him. For a second or tAvo he stood in perfect 
darkness, but suddenly a Avide flash of lightning 
lit up the Avhole air, displaying the bleak Cam- 
pagna for miles and miles, Avhile it depicted ev- 
ery detail of the little tOAver around him. Tak- 
ing advantage of the light, he adA-anced and 
opened the AvindoAvs, carefully fastening them 
to the AA'alls as he did so. He iiqav seated him- 
self by the open casement, gathering his robe 
Avell about him, and clraAving the hood over his 
face. The storm increased as the night Avent 
on. Many an ancient pillar rocked to its base 
• — many a stern old ruin shook, as in distinct 
blasts, like the report of cannon, the Avind hurl- 
ed all its force upon them. In the same fitful 
gusts the rain dashed dowm, seething across the 
Avide plain, Avhere it hissed Avith a sound like a 
breaking sea borne away on the wild blast. 
The sound of the bells through the city- Avas 


not heard : all except St. Peter’s AA-ere dissipa- 
ted and lost. The great bell of the mighty 
dome, hoAVCA-er, rose proudly above the crash 
of elements, and struck three, and as the Pere 
counted the strokes, he sighed drearily. For 
the last hour the lightning had been less and 
less frequent; and instead of that Avidc-sj)read- 
ing scene of open Campagna, dotted Avith vil- 
lages, and traversed by- roads, suddenly- flashing 
upon him Avith a clearness more marked than 
at noonday, all AA-as noAV Avrapped in an impen- 
etrable darkness, only broken at rare intervals, 
and by Aveak and uncertain gleams. 

Why does he peer so earnestly- through the 
gloom ? Avhy', in every lull of the gale, does he 
bend his ear to listen ? and Avhy, in the light- 
ning flashes, are his eyes CA-cr turned to the 
Avinding road that leads to Viterbo? For him, 
surely, no ties of kindred, no affections of the 
heart are the moliA-cs AAhich hold him thus 
spell-bound — nor Avife, nor child are his, for 
Avhosc coming he Avatches thus eagerly-. What 
can it be, then, that has aAvakened this feverish 
anxiety Avithin him, that Avilh every sAvell of the 
storm he starts and listens Avith more intense 
eagerness ? 

“He Avill not come to-night,” muttered he 
at length to himself; “he Avill not come to- 
night, and to-morroAV it Avill be too late. On 
Wednesday they leave this for Gaeta, and ere 
they return it may be AA-ecks, ay-, montb.s. So 
is it ever : Ave strh-e, and plot, and plan ; and 
yet it is a mere question of seconds AAhclher the 
mine explode at the right instant. The delay 
is inexplicable,” said he, after a pause. “They 
left Sienna on Sunday last ; and, even granting 
that they must traA-el slowly, they should haA-e 
been here y-esterday morning. What misfor- 
tune is this ? I left the Cardinal last night, at 
length — and after hoAV much labor — persuaded 
and convinced. He agreed to all and CA-ery 
thing. Had the youth arriA-ed to-night, there- 
fore, his Eminence must haA-e pledged himself 
to the enterprise ; indeed he rarely changes his 
mind under tAvo days !” He paused for a Avhile, 
and then in a voice of deeper emotion, said : 
“If Ave needed to be taught hoAV small is all our 
Avisdom — hoAV poor, and Aveak, and pOAverless Ave 
are — Ave can read the lesson in the fact that 
minutes decide destinies, while Avhole lives of 
Avatching can not control the smallest CA-ent!” 
A brilliant flash of lightning at this instant il- 
luminated the entire plain, shoAving every ob- 
ject in the Avide expanse for miles. The Pere 
started, and leaned eagerly upon the AvindoAV, 
his eyes fixed on the Viterho road. Another 
minute, ay, a second more, had been enough to 
assure him if he had seen aright ; but already 
it Avas dark again, and the dense thunder-clouds 
seemed to descend to the A-ery earth. As the 
loAv groAvling sounds died aAvay at last, the air 
seemed somcAvhat thinner, and noAv the Pere 
could make out a faintly tAvinkling light that 
flickered through the gloom, appearing and dis- 
appearing at intervals, as the ground rose or 
fell; he quickly recognized it for a carriage- 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


109 


lamp, and with a fervently-ntlered entreaty to 
heaven, that it might prove the herald of those 
he watched for, he closed the Avindow and re- 
turned to his study. 

If the law that condemns the priest to a' life 
of isolation and estrangement from all human 
affections be severe and pitiless, there is what 
many would deem a proud compensation in the 
immensity of that ambition offered to men thus 
separated from their fellows. Soaring above 
the cares and anxieties, Avhose very egotism ren- 
ders them little, these men fix their contempla- 
tion upon the great events of the world, and, in 
a spirit that embraces ages yet unborn, uninflu- 
enced by the emotions that SAvay others, un- 
touched by the yearnings that control them, they 
alone of all mankind can address themselves to 
the objects of their ambition without selfish in- 
terests. The aggrandizement of the Church, the 
spread and pre-eminence of the Catholic faith, 
formed a cause which for centuries cngnged the 
greatest intellects and the most devoted hearts 
of her followers. Among these were many of 
more eminence, in point of station than Masso- 
ni ; many more learned, many more eloquent, 
many whose influence extended farther and wid- 
er, but not one who threw more steadfast devo- 
tion into the cause, nor Avho aa'us readier to peril 
all — even to life itself — in its support. He had 
been for years employed by the Papal Govern- 
ment as a secret agent at the different courts of 
Europe. He had been in Spain, in Austria, in 
France, and the Low Countries; he had trav- 
eled through England, and passed nearly a year 
in Ireland. Well versed in modern languages, 
and equally acquainted with the various forms 
of European government, he Avas one Avhose 
opinion had a great Aveight upon CA-ery question 
of political bearing. Far too crafty to employ 
this knowledge in self-advancement, Avhere, at 
the A'ery utmost, it might haA'e led to some in- 
ferior dignity at home, or some small “Nunci- 
ate” abroad, he devoted himself to the service 
of the Cardinal Carafhi, a man of immense 
AA'ealth, high family, OA'erAA'eening pretensions, 
but of an intellect the very Aveakest, and .so as- 
sailable by flattery, as to be the shiA^e of those Avho 
had access to him. His Eminence saAv all the 
adA’antages to be deriA'ed from such a connec- 
tion. .WhateA'er the point that occupied the 
Consultn, he Avas sure to be thoroughly inform- 
ed upon it by his secret adA’iser; and so faith- 
fully and so adroitly Avas he seiwed, that the 
mystery of their intimacy Avas unfathomed by 
his brother cardinals. Caraffa spoke of Masso- 
ni as a person of Avhom “he had heard, indeed 
a man trustAA'orthA', and of some attainments, 
but that AA’as all ; “ he had .seen him, too, and 
spoken Avith him occasionally I” 

As for the Pere, the name of his Eminence 
neA'er passed his lips, except in company Avith 
those of other cardinals. In fact, he kncAv feAv 
great people ; their Avays and habits little suited 
his humble mode of life, and he neA-er frequent- 
ed the grand receptions of the princes of the 
Church, nor showed himself at their salons. 


Such, in brief, Avas tlic Jesuit Father, Avho noAv 
walked up and doAvn the little study, in a state 
of feverish impatience it aa'us rarely his lot to 
suffer. At last the heavy roll of a carriage re- 
sounded in the court beneath, the clank of de- 
scending steps Avas heard, and soon after the 
sound of approaching feet along the corridor. 

“Are they come? is it Carrol?” cried the 
Pere, flinging Avide the door of his chamber. 

“ Yes, most reverend rector,” said a full, rich 
A’oice ; and a short, rosy-faced little man, in the 
prime of life, entered, and obsequiously kissed 
Massoni’s extended hand. 

“What an anxious time you haA'e giA'on me, 
Carrol!” said the Pere, hastily. “ llaA'e you 
brought him ? Is he Avith you ?” 

“Yes; he’s in the carriage bcloAv at this mo- 
ment, but so Avearied and exhausted that it Avere 
better you should not see him to niglit.” 

Massoni paused to reflect, and after a mo- 
ment, said, 

“We haA'e no time, not even an hour, to 
throw UAvay, Carrol ; the sooner I see this youth 
the better prepared shall I be to speak of him to 
his Eminence. A few AA'ords to Avelcome him 
Avill be enough for me. Yes, let him come; it 
is for. the best.” 

Carrol left the room, and, after some delay, 
Avas heard returning, his slow steps being ac- 
companied by the Avearied foot-falls of one Avho 
Avalked Avith difficulty. Massoni thrcAV the door 
Avide, and as the light streamed out he almost 
started at the figure before him. Pale, Avan, 
and AA'orn looking as the stranger appeared, the 
resemblance to Charles Edward Avas positively 
startling. The same lustrous gleam of the deep 
blue eyes : the same refinement of broAv ; the 
same almost AA'omanly softness of expression in 
the mouth ; and stronger than all these, the 
mode in Avhich he carried his head someAvhat 
back, and Avith the chin slightly clcA'ated, Avere 
all marks of the Prince. 

Massoni AA'elcomed him Avith a courteous and 
respectful tone, and conducted him to a seat. 

“This is a meeting I have long and ardent- 
ly desired, sir,” said the Pere, in tlie voice of 
one to Avhom the arts of the courtier Avere not 
unknoAvn ; “nor am I the only one here Avho 
has cherished this Avish.” ^ 

A faint smile, half gracious, half surprised, ac- 
knoAvledged this speech, and Carre 1 Avatclied Avith 
a painful anxiety CA'en this mark of recognition. 

“Tiie ChcA’alier is fatigued to-night, reverend 
father,” said he; “his endeaA'oia to fulfill our 
Avishes have cost him much exertion and Aveari- 
ness. We haA'e journeyed day and night from 
GencA'a.” 

“ In this ardor he has only giA'en us a deeper 
pledge of his high deservings. May I offer you 
some refresliinent.s, sir?” said he, hastily, struck 
by the Aveak pallor of the young man’s counte- 
nance. 

A gentle gesture of refusal declined the offer. 

“ Shall I show you to your room, then ?” said 
the Pere, rising and opening a door into a small 
chamber adjoining ; “ myserA'ant Avill attend you.^ 


110 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“No,” said the youth, faintly, “let us pro- 
ceed with our journey ; I will not rest till I reach 
Rome.” 

“But you are at Rome, sir; we are at our 
journey’s end,” said Carrol. 

The young man heard the w'ords wdthout emo- 
tion — the same sad smile upon his lips. 

“lie must have rest and care,” whispered 
Massoni to Carrol; and then turning to the 
youth, he took him by the hand and led him 
away. 

Having consigned him to the care of a faith- 
ful servant, the Fere re-entered the room, his 
ftice flushed, and his dark eyes flashing. 

“What miserable deception is this?” cried 
he. “ Is this the daring, headlong spirit I have 
been hearing of : are these the parts to confront 
an enterjjrise of peril?” 

“He is—” 

“He is dying,” broke in the Pere, passion- 
ately. 

“Confess, at least, he is a Stuart, in every 
line and lineament.” 

“Ay, Carrol, even to the word failure, 
written in capitals on his brow.” 

“ But you see him wasted by fever and long 
suffering; he rose from a sick bed to undertake 
this w'earisome journey.” 

“Better had he kept his bed till death re- 
leased him. I tell you it is not of such stuff as 
this adventurers are made. His very appear- 
ance w'ould dash men with discouragement.” 

“Bethink you what he has gone through, 
Pere ; the sights and scenes of horror that have 
met his eyes — the daily carnage amid which he 
lived — himself, twice rescued from the scaffold, 
by 'what seems like a miracle — his days and 
nights of suffering in friendless misery too. 
Remember, also, how little of hope there was to 
cheer him through all this. If ever there was 
one forlorn and destitute, it was he.” 

“I think not of him, but of the cause he 
should have served,” said the Pere; “and once 
more I say, this youth is unequal to ‘ the event.’ 
His father had faults enough to have wrecked 
a dozen enterprises : he was rash, reckless, and 
unstable ; but his rashness took the form of 
courage, and his very fickleness had a false air 
of versatility. Men regarded it as an element 
full of resources; but this sickly boy only re- 
calls in his features every w'eakness of his race. 
What can we do with him 

“ Men have fought valiantly for royalties that 
offered less to their regard,” said Carrol. 

“Ay, Cairol, when the throne is fixed, men 
will rally to maintain it, even though he who 
W'cars the crown he little worthy of their rever- 
ence; but when the question is to re-establish 
a fallen dynasty — to rejjlace one branch hy an- 
other, the individual becomes of immense im- 
portance ; ])ersonal qualities assume then all 
the proportions of claims, and men calculate 
on the future by the promises of the present. 
Tell me frankly what could you augur for a 
cause of which this youth w'as to be the cham- 
pion ?” 


Carrol did not break silence for some time ; 
at length he said, 

“You told me once, and I have never forgot- 
ten it, a remarkable story of Monsignore Saffi, 
the Bishop of Volte rra — ” 

“ I know what you allude to — how' the simple- 
minded bishop became the craftiest of cardinals. 
Ay, elevation will now and then work such mir- 
acles; but it is because they are miracles we 
are not to calculate on their recurrence.” 

“ I would not say that this is not the case to 
hope for a similar transformation. They who 
knew Fitzgerald in his better, stronger days, 
describe him as one capable of the most daring 
exploits, full of heroism and of a boundless am- 
bition, fed by some mysterious sentiment that 
w'hispers wdthin him that he was destined for 
high achievement. These are inspirations that 
usually only die with ourselves.” 

“When I look at him,” said the Pere, sadly, 
“I distrust them all.” 

“You are not w'ont to be so easily discour- 
aged.” 

“ Easily^ discouraged — easily discouraged ! it 
is a strange reproach to bring against me,” said 
the Pere, w’ith a calm collectedness; “nor is that 
the character all Rome would give me. But why 
am I steadfast of purpose and fiim of plan? 
Because, ere I engage in an enterprise, I w'eigh 
well the means of success, and canvass all its 
agencies. The smallest stream that ever dash- 
ed down a mountain has strength in the impulse 
of its course, while if it meandered through a 
plain it had been a rivulet. This is a lesson we 
may reap profit from.” 

Carrol did not answer, and Massoni, covering 
his face with his hands, seemed lost in deep 
thought; at last he said, 

“What was yorr pretext to induce him to 
come back here?” 

“ To hear tidings of his family and kindred.” 

“Did you intimate to him that they were cf 
rank and station?” 

*“Yes, of the very highest.” 

“How did the new's affect him?” 

“It w^as hard at first to convince him that 
they could be true. He had, beside.'?, been so 
often tricked and deceived by false intelligence, 
and made the sport of craftier heads, that it w as 
difficult to win his confidence ; nor did I suc- 
ceed until I told him certain facts about his 
early life, wdiose correctness he acknowledged.” 

“ I had imagined him most unlike what I see. 
If Charles Edw'ard had left a daughter she 
might have resembled this.” 

“ Still that very resemblance is of great 
value.” 

“What signifies that a thing may look like 
gold, when at the first touch of the chemist’s 
test it blackens and betrays itself?” 

‘ ‘ He may be more of a Stuart even than he 
looks. It is too rash to judge of him as we see 
him now'.” 

“ Be it so,” said the Pke, with a sort of res. 
ignation; “but if I have not lost my skill in 
reading temperament, this youth is not to our 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


Ill 


purpose. At r.ll events,” resumed he, more 
rapidly, “ his Eminence need not sec liim yet. 
Enough when I say that the fatigues of the 
road have brought on some fever, and that lie is 
confined to bed. Within a week, or even less, 
I shall be able to pronounce if we may employ 
him. I have no mind to hear your news to- 
night; this disappointment has unmanned me; 
but to-morrow, Carrol, to-morrow the day will 
be all our own, and I all myself. And so good 
night, and good rest.” 

— * — "K 

CHAPTER XVI. 

“the cardinal at his devotions.” 

If the night which followed the interview of 
the Pere Massoni with Carrol was one of deep 
anxiety, the morning did not bring any relief 
to his cares. His first duty was to ask after 
Fitzgei’ald. The youth had slept little, but lay 
tranquil and uncomplaining, and to all seeming 
indift'erent either as to the strange place or the 
sti-ange faces around him. The keen-eyed serv- 
ant, Giacomo, himself an humble member of 
the order, quickly detected that he was suffer- 
ing under some mental shock, and that the case 
was one where the mere physician could afford 
but little benefit. 

“ He lies there quiet as a child,” said he, 
“never speaking nor moving, his eyelids half 
drooped over his eyes, and save that now and 
then, at long intervals, he breathes a low, faint 
sigh, you’d scai’ce believe he was alive.” 

“ I will see him,” said the Pere, as he gently 
opened the door, and stole noiselessly across 
the room. A faint streak of light peering be- 
tween the drawn window-curtains, fell directly 
on the youth’s face, showing it ])ale and emo- 
tionless, as Giacomo described it. As the Pere 
seated himself by the bedside, he purposely 
made a slight noise, to attract the other’s atten- 
tion, but Gerald did not notice him, not even 
turning a look toward him. Massoni laid his 
finger on the pulse, the action was w'cak but 
regular ; nothing to denote fever or excitement, 
only the evidence of great exhaustion or de- 
bility. 

“I have come to hear how you have rested,” 
said the Pere, in an accent he could render 
soft as a w'oman’s, “and to welcome you to 
Rome.” 

A faint, very faint smile was all the reply to 
this speech. 

“I am aware that you have gone through 
much suffering and peril,” continued the Pere, 
“but with rest and kind care you will soon be 
well again. You are among friends, who are 
devoted to you.” 

A gentle movement of the brows, as if in as- 
sent, replied. 

“It may be that speaking would distress you ; 
perhaps even my own words fatigue you. If so, 

I will be satisfied to come and sit silently beside 
you, till you are stronger and better.” 


“Si — si,” muttered Gerald, faintly, and at 
the same time he essayed to smile as it were in 
recognition, 

A quick convulsive twitch of impatience 
passed across the Pere’s pale face, but so rapid- 
ly that it seemed a si)asm, and the features 
were the next moment calm as before ; and 
now Massoni sat silently gazing on the tranquil 
lineaments before him. Among the varied stud- 
ies of his laborious life medicine had not been 
neglected, and now he addressed himself to ex- 
amine the condition and study the symptoms 
of the youth. The case was not of much bodily 
ailment, at least save in the exhaustion which 
])revious illness had left. There w'as nothing 
like malady, but there were signs of a mischief 
far deeper, more subtle, and less curable than 
mere physical ills. The look of vacancy — the 
half-meaning smile — the dull languor, not alone 
in feature but in the way he lay — all presented 
matter for grave and weighty fears. The very 
presence of these signs, unaccompanied by ail- 
ment, gave a gloomier aspect to the case, and 
led the Pere to reflect whether such traits had 
any connection with descent. The strong re- 
semblance which the young man bore to the 
Stuarts — and there were few families where the 
distinctive traits were more marked — induced 
Massoni to consider the question with reference 
to them. They are indeed a race whose way- 
ward impulses and rash resolves took oftentimes 
but little guidance of reason ; but these were 
mere signs of eccentricity and not insanity. 
But might not the one be precursor to the oth- 
er ; might not the frail judgment, wdiich sufficed 
for the every-day cares of life utterly give way 
in seasons of greater trial? Thus reasoning 
and communing with himself he sat till the 
hour struck which apprised him of his audience 
with the Cardinal. 

It tvas not yet the season when Rome was 
filled by its higher classes, and Massoni could 
repair to the palace of the Cardinal without any 
of the secrecy observable at other periods. Still 
he deemed it more in accordance with the hu- 
mility he affected, to seek admission by a small 
garden gate, w'hich opened on the Pintean hill. 
The little portal admitted him into a garden 
such as only Italy possesses. The gardens of 
England are unrivaled for their peculiar excel- 
lence, and in the exquisite flavor of their fruit, 
and their perfection of order and neatness they 
stand unequaled in the world; the trim quaint- 
ness of the Dutch taste has also its special 
beauty, and nowhere can be seen such gorgeous 
coloring in flower-pots, such splendor of tulip 
and ranunculus: but there is in Italy a rich 
blending of culture and \vildness — a mingled 
s]3lendor and simplicity, just as in the great 
halls of the marble palace on the Neva, where 
the haughtiest noble in his diamond pelisse, 
stands side by side with the sim])le Boyard in 
his furs: so in the “golden Land,” the cactus 
and the mimosa, the orange and the pear-tree, 
the cedar of Lebanon and the stone-pine of the 
north, are commingled and interleaved ; all signs 


112 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


of a soil wliich cnn supply nourishment to the 
rarest and most delicate, as well as to the hardi- 
est of plants. 

In this lovely wilderness, with many a group 
m marble, many a beautifully-carved fountain, 
many an ornamental shrine, half hidden in its 
leafy recesses, the Fere now walked, screening 
liis steps as he went, from that great range of 
windows which opened on a grand terrace — a 
precaution rather the result of habit than called 
for by the circumstance of the time. A fish- 
pond of some extent, with a small island, occu- 
pied the centre of the garden ; the island itself 
being ornamented by a beautiful little shrine 
dedicated to our Lady of Rimini, the birth-place 
of the Cardinal. To this sacred spot his Emi- 
nence was accustomed to repair for secret wor- 
ship each morning of his life. As a measure 
of respectful reverence for the great man’s de- 
votions, the place was studiously secluded from 
all intrusion, and even strangers — admitted, as 
at rare intervals they were, to visit the gardens 
— were never suffered to invade the sacred pre- 
cincts of the island. 

A strangely contrived piece of mechanism 
appended to the little wicket that formed the 
entrance always sufliced to show if his Eminence 
was engaged in prayer, and consequently re- 
moved from all pretext of interruption. This 
was an apparatus, by which the face of a beau- 
tifully painted Madonna became suddenly cov- 
ered by a veil, a signal that none of the Car- 
dinal’s nearest of blood would have dared to 
violate. It was, indeed, to the liours of daily 
seclusion thus piously passed the Cardinal owed 
that character for sanctity which eminently dis- 
tinguished him in the Church. A day never 
Avent over in Avhich he did not devote at the 
least an hour to this sacred duty, and the air 
of absorption, as he repaired to the shrine, and 
the look of intense preoccupation he brought 
aAvay, vouched for the depth of his pious musings. 

As Massoni arrived at the narrow causeway 
Avhich led over to the island, he perceived that 
the A’eil of the Madonna was lowered. He 
knew, therefore, at once that the Cardinal was 
there, and he stopped to consider what course 
lie should adopt, whether to loiter about the 
garden till his Eminence should appear, or re- 
])air to the palace and await him. The Pere 
knew that the Cardinal was to leave Rome by 
midday, to reach Albano to dinner, and he 
mused over the shortness of the time their inter- 
view must last. 

“This is no common emergency,” thought 
he, at last; “here is a case fraught with the 
most tremendous consequences. If this scheme 
be engaged in, the Avhole of Europe may soon 
be in arms — the greatest convulsion that ever 
shook the continent may result; and out of the 
struggle Avho is to foresee what principles may 
be tlie victors !” 

“I will go to him at once,” said he, resolute- 
ly. “Events succeed each other too rapidly 
nowadays for more delay. ‘The Terror’ in 
France has once more turned men’s minds to 


the peaceful security of a monarchy. Let us 
profit by the moment;” and Avith this he trav- 
ersed the narroAV bridge and reached the island. 

A thick copse of ornamental planting screen- 
ed the front of the little shrine. Hastily pass- 
ing through this, he stood within a few yards 
of the building, when liis steps were quickly ar- 
rested by the sound of a voice whose accents 
could not be mistaken for the Cardinal’s. There 
Avas besides something distincth-ely foreign in 
the pronunciation that marked the speaker for 
a stranger. Curious to ascertain who might be 
the intruder in a spot so sacred, Massoni step- 
ped noiselessly through the bruslnvood, and 
gained a little loop-holed aperture beside the 
altar, from Avhich the Avhole interior of the shrine 
could be seen. Seated on one of the marble 
steps beloAV the altar was the Cardinal, a loose 
dressing-gOAvn of rich fur wrapjjed round him, 
and a cap of the same material on his head. 
Directly in front of him, and also seated on the 
pedestal of a column, Avas a man in a Carthush 
an robe, patched and discolored, and shoAving 
many signs of age and poverty. The Avearer, 
hoAvev’er, was rubicund ancl jovial-looking, 
though the angles of the mouth Avere someAvhat 
dragged, and the aa rinkles at the eyes Avere deep- 
Avorn. The general expression, hoAvever, Avas 
that of one Avhose nature accepted the struggles 
of life manfully and cheerfully. It Avas not till 
after some minutes of close scrutiny that Mas- 
soni could recall the features, but at length he 
remembered that it was the well-knoAvn Car- 
thusian friar, George Kelly, the former com- 
panion of Prince Charles Echvard. If their po- 
sitions in life were Avidely different, Kelly did 
not suffer the disparity to influence his manner, 
but talked Avith all the ease and familiarity of 
an equal. 

Whatever interest the scene might have had 
for Massoni Avas speedily increased by the first 
Avoi ds Avhich met his ears. It aa'jis the Cardinal 
who said, 

“I OAvn to you, Kelly, until Avhat you have 
told me I had ])ut little faith in the Avhole story 
of this youth, and there is then really such?” 

“There is, or at least there Avas, your Em- 
inence. I remember as AA^ell as if it Avas yes- 
terday the evening he came to the palace to see 
the Prince. A. poor countryman of my OAvn, a 
Carthusian, brought him, and took him back 
again to the college. The boy Avas afterAvard 
sent to a villa someAvhere near Orvieto.” 

“Was the youth acknoAvledged by his Royal 
Highness as his son? ’ asked the Cardinal. 

“The Prince never spoke of him to me till 
the day before his death ; he then said, ‘Can 
you find out that Carthusian for me, Kelly? — 
1 should like to speak Avith him.’ I told him 
that ho had long since left Rome and even Italy. 
The last tidings of him came from Ireland, Avhere 
he Avas living as a dependent on some reduced 
family. 

“ ‘There is no time to fetch him from Ire- 
land,’ said his Highness; ‘and yet, Kelly, I’d 
gWe a thoueand pounds that he Avere here.’ 


“THE CHEVALIEH.” 


113 


lie then risked mo if I remembered a certain 
boy. dressed like a colleger of the Jesuits, who 
came one night long ago to the palace with this 
same Carthusian. 

“I said, yes; that though his Royal High- 
ness believed that I was away from Rome that 
night, I came back post haste from Albano ; and 
finding myself in one of the corridors, I waited 
till the friar came out from his interview with 
the boy beside him. 

“‘True, true, Kelly; I meant you to have 
known nothing of this visit. So then you saw 
the boy. What thought you of him ?’ 

“ ‘I saw and marked him well, for his fair 
hair and skin were so distinctively English, they 
made a deep impression upon me.’ 

“‘He had the moutli, too, Kelly— a little 
pouting and over full-lipped. Did you mark 
that ?’ 

“ ‘ No, sire ; I did not observe him so closely.’ 

“ ‘ How poor and ragged the child was ; his 
very shoes were broken. Did you see his shoes ? 
— and that frail bit of serge was all his cover- 
ing against the keen blast. Oh, George !’ cried 
he, as his lip shook with emotion, ‘what would 
you say if that poor boy, all wretched and way- 
worn as you saw him, were the true heir of a 
throne, and that the proudest in Europe. What 
a lesson for human greatness that! It was a 
scurvy trick you played me that night, sir,’ said 
he, quickly changing, for his moods were ever 
thus, and you never could guess how long any 
theme would engage him — ‘ a scurvy trick, sir, 
to pry into what your master desired you should 
not know. I had my own good reasons for what 
I did, and it ill became you to contravene them ; 
but it was like your cloth — a}'^, sirrah, it was the 
trick of all your kind.’ 

“ Out of this he fell a weeping over the fall- 
en fortunes of his house, asking again and again 
if history contained any thing its equal ; and 
saying that other dynasties had fallen through 
their crimes and cruelties, but that his house 
had been ruined by trustfulness and generosity, 
and so he forgot the boy and all about him.” 

“And think you it was to this youth that his 
Royal Highness bequeathed the sum mentioned 
in his will, together with his George, the Grand 
Cross of Malta, and the St.John of Jerusalem, 
for so the Cardinal York tells me the bequest 
runs ?” 

“As to that I can say nothing,’' said Kellv', 
boldly. 

“I have heard,” said the Cardinal again, 
“ that in a sealed letter to his brother York the 
Prince acknowledges this boy as his son, born 
in w'edlock, his mother being of an ancient and 
noble house.” Then quickly changing his tone, 
he asked, “How are we to find him, Kelly? 
Do you believe that he still lives ?” 

“1 have no means of knowing ; but if I wish- 
ed to trace a man, not merely in Europe, but 
tlirough the globe itself, I am aware of but one 
police to trust to.” 

“And that?” 

“The Jesuits: they are every where; and 
PI 


every where cautious, painstaking, ajjd trust- 
worthy ; they are well skilled in pursuits like 
these ; and even when they fail — and they sel- 
dom fail — they never compromise such as em- 
ploy them.” 

“Well,” said the Cardinal, “they have fail- 
ed here. They have been on the track of this 
young fellow for years back ; and when I tell 
you that the craftiest of them all, Massoni, has 
not been able to find a clue to him, what will 
you say?” 

“Why, that he must be dead and buried, 
your Eminence,” broke in Kelly. 

“To that conclusion have I come myself, I'l-a 
Kelly. Had he been alive he had come long 
since to claim this costly inheritance. Seven 
hundred thousand Roman scudi, the Palazzo 
Albuquerque, at Albano, with all its splendid 
pictures and jewels, worth double the whole — ” 

“Egad, I had come out of my grave to as- 
sert my right to such a bequest,” said Kelly, 
laughing. ‘ ‘ Has the Cardinal York made search 
for him, your Eminence ?” said he, hastily cor- 
recting his levity. 

“The Cardinal York is not likely to disturb 
himself with such cares ; and as the legacy lapses, 
in default of claimant, to the convent of St. Laz- 
arus of Medina, he probably deems that it will 
be as well bestowed.” 

“Lazarus will have fallen upon some^ savory 
crumbs this time,” muttered Kelly, whose dis- 
position to' jest seemed beyond all his self- 
control. 

“It was this very day Massoni hoped to have 
brought me some tidings of the youth,” said the 
Cardinal, rising, “and he has not ajipeared. It 
must be as you have said, Kelly ; the grave has 
closed over him. There is now, therefore, a 
great danger to guard against: substitution of 
some other for him — not by Massoni; he is a 
man of probity and honor; but he may be im- 
posed on by others. It is a fraud which would 
well repay all its trouble.” 

“There is but one could detect the trick — 
that Luke M ‘Manus, the Carthusian I have 
mentioned to your Eminence. He knew the 
boy Avell, and was intrusted by the Prince to 
take charge of him ; but he is away in Ireland.” 

“But could be fetched, if necessary,” said 
Caraffa, half musing, as he moved toward the 
door. 

Massoni did not wait to hear more, but stealth- 
ily threading his way through the copse, he 
gained the garden, and retracing his steps, re- 
turned to the convent. Ascending to his cham- 
ber by a private stair, he gave his servant or- 
ders to say that he was indisposed, and could 
not receive any one. 

“So, then, your Eminence,” said he, bitter- 
ly, as he sank into a chair, “you would under- 
plot me here. Let us see who can play his 
cards best.” 


♦ 


114 GERALD FITZGERALD, 


CHAPTER XVir. 

AN AUDIENCE. 

Within less than half an hour after his ar- 
rival at home, Massoni received an order from 
the Cardinal to repair to the palace. It was a 
verbal message, and couched in terms to make 
the communication seem scarcely important. 

Massoni smiled as he prepared to obey ; it 
amused him to think, that in a game of craft 
and subtlety his Eminence should dare to con- 
front him, and yet this was evidently his policy. 

The Cardinal’s carriage stood ready liorsed in 
the court-yard as the Pere passed through, and 
a certain air of impatience in the servants, 
showed that the time of departure had been in- 
conveniently delayed. 

“ That thunder-storm will break over us be- 
fore we are half way across the Camj:agna,” 
cried one. 

“We were ordered for one, and it is noAv 
past three, and though the horses were taken 
from their feed to get in readiness, here we are 
still.” 

“And all because a Jesuit is at his devo- 
tions !” 

The look of haughty rebuke Massoni turned 
upon them, as he caught these words, made 
them shrink back abashed and terrified; and 
none knew when, nor in what shape, might 
come the punishment for this insolence. 

“You have forgotten an appointment, Pere 
Massoni,” said the Cardinal, as the other en- 
tered his chamber, with a deep and respectful 
reverence, “an appointment too, of your own 
making. There is an opinion abroad, that we 
Cardinals are men of leisure, whose idle hours 
are at the discretion of all ; I had hoped, that 
to this novel theory the Pere Massoni would not 
have been a convert.” 

“Nor am I, your Eminence. It would ill 
become one who wears such a frock as this to 
deny the rights of discipline and the benefits of 
obedience.” 

“But you are late, sir?” 

“ If I am so, your Eminence will pardon me 
when I give the reason. The entire of last 
night was passed by me, in watching for the ar- 
rival of a certain youth, who did not come till 
nigh daybreak, and even then, so ill, so worn 
out and exhausted, that I have been in constant 
care of him ever since.” 

“ And he is come — he is actually here ?” cried 
the Cardinal, eagerly. 

“ He is, at this moment, in the college.” 

“How have you been able to authenticate 
his identity ? the rumor goes, that he died years 
ago.” 

“ It is a somewhat entangled skein, your Em- 
inence, but will stand the test of unravelment. 
Intervals there are, indeed, in his story, unfilled 
up ; lapses of time, in which I am left to mere 
conjecture, but his career is traceable through- 
out ; and I can track him from the days in 
which he stood an acolyte beside our altars, to 
the hour we now talk in.” 


“It is to your sanguine hopes j'ou have been 
listening, rather than cold reason, Pere.” 

“Look at me, Eminence — scan me well, and 
say, do I look like those who are slaves to thei; 
own enthusiasm?” 

“ The strongest currents are often calm on the 
surface.” 

The Pen’e sighed heavily, but did not answer. 

“ The youth himself, too, may have aided the 
delusion : he is, probably, one well suited to in- 
spire interest : in a varied and adventurous life, 
men of this stamp acquire, amid their other 
worldly gifts, a marvelous power of persuasive- 
ness.” 

The Pere smiled half sadly. 

“You would tell me, by that smile, l^ere 
Massoni, that you are not to be the victim of 
such seductions ; that you understand mankind 
ill a spirit that excludes such error.” 

“Far be it from me to indulge such boastful- 
ness,” said the other, meekly. 

“At all events,” said the Cardinal, half pee- 
vishly, “he who has courage and ambition 
enough to play this game is, doubtless, a fellow 
of infinite resource and readiness, and will have, 
at least, plausibility on his side.” 

“ Would that it were so,” exclaimed Massoni, 
eagerly. 

“ What do you mean by that ?” 

“Would that he were one who could boldly 
assert his own proud cause, and vindicate his 
own high claims ; would that he had come 
through the terrible 3^ears of his suffering life 
with a spirit hardened by trials, and a courage 
matured by exercise ; would, above all, that he 
had not come from the conflict broken in health, 
shattered and down-stricken. Ay, sir, this youth 
of bold pretensions, of winning manners, and 
persuasive gifts is a poor fellow so stunned by 
calamity, as to be heljdess!” 

“Is he dying?” cried the Cardinal with in- 
tense anxiety.- 

“It Avere as well to die as live what he now 
is!” said the Pere, solemnl\^ 

“Have the doctors seen him? — has Fabri- 
chette been with him ?” 

“No, sir. It is no case for their assistance, 
my own poor skill can teach me so much. His 
is the malady of the wounded spirit, and the in- 
jured mind.” 

“Is his reason affected?” asked Caraffe, 
quickly. 

“ I trust not ; but it is a case where time and 
care can be the only physicians.” 

“And so, therefore, falls to the ground the 
grand edifice you liave so long been rearing. 
The great foundation itself is rotten.” 

“ He may recover, sir,” said Massoni, slouly. 

“ To what end, I ask you, to what end ?” 

“At least to claim a princely heritage,” said 
Massoni, boldly. 

“Who says so? — of what heritage do you 
speak? You are surely too Avise to put faith in 
the idle stories men repeat of this or that legacy, 
left by the late Prince.” 

“I knoAV enough, sir, to be sure that I speak 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


115 


on good authority; and I repeat, that when this 
youth can prove his descent, he is the rightful 
heir to a royal fortune. It may be, that he will 
have higher and nobler ambitions : he may feel 
that a great cause is ever worthy a great effort ; 
that the son of a prince can not accept life on 
the same humble terms as other men. In short, 
sir, it may chance that the dream of a poor Je- 
suit father should become a grand reality.” 

“If all be but as real as the heritage, Mas- 
soni,” said the Cardinal, scoflfingly, “you called 
it by its true name, when you said ‘ dream.’ ” 

“Have you, then, not heard of this legacy?” 

“ Heard of it ! Yes : all Rome heard of it ; 
and, for that matter, his Royal Highness may 
have left him St. James’s, and the royal forest 
of Windsor.” 

“Your Eminence, then, doubts that there was 
any thing to bequeath ?” 

“There is no need to canvass what I doubt. 
I’ll tell you what I know. The rent of the Al- 
tieri for the last two years is still unpaid ; the 
servants at Albano have not received theirwages, 
and the royal plate is at this moment pledged in 
the hands of the Jew Alcaico. 

The Pere was silent. The sole effect these 
stunning tidings had on him was to speculate to 
what end and with what object the Cai'dinal 
said all this. It was not the language he had 
used a short hour ago with Kelly. Whence, 
therefore, this change of tone? Why did he 
now disparage the prospects he had then up- 
held so highly? These were questions not 
easily solved in a moment, and Massoni pon- 
dered them deeply. The Cardinal had begun 
with hinting doubts of the youth’s identity, and 
then he had scoffed at the prospect of his inher- 
itance. Was it that by these he meant to dis- 
courage the scheme of which he should have 
been the head, or was it that some deeper and 
more subtle plan occupied his mind? And if 
so, what could it be ?” 

“I see how I have grieved and disappointed 
you, Pere Massoni,” said his Eminence, “and I 
regret it. Life is little else than a tale of such 
reverses.” 

The Pere’s dark eyes glanced forth a gleam 
of intense intelligence. It was the light of a 
sudden thought that flashed across his brain. 
He remembered that when the Cardinal moral- 
ized he meant a treachery, and now he stood 
on his guard. 

“ I had many things to tell your Eminence 
of Ireland,” he began in a calm, subdued voice. 
“The priest Carrol has just come from thence, 
and can speak of events as he has witnessed 
them. The hatred to England and English 
rule increases every day, and the great peril is 
that this animosity may burst forth without 
guidance or direction. The utmost efforts of 
the leaders are required to hold the people 
back.” 

“They never can wish for a fitter moment. 
England has her hands full, and can scarcely 
spare a man to repress rebellion in Ireland.” 

“ The Irish have not any organization among 


them. Remember, your Eminence, that they 
have been held like a people in slavery: the 
gentry discredited, the priests insulted. The 
first efforts of such a race can not have the force 
of union or combination. They must needs 
be desultory and partisan, and if they can not 
obtain aid from others, they will speedily be re- 
pressed.” 

“What sort of aid?” 

“Arms and money ; they have neither. Of 
men there is no want. Men of military knowl- 
edge and skill will also bo required ; but more 
even tlian these they need the force that foreign 
sympathy would impart to their cause. Carrol, 
who knows the country well, says that the bare 
assurance that Rome looked on the coming 
struggle with interest would be better than ten 
thousand soldiers in their ranks. Hivided, as 
they are, by seas from all the world, they need 
the encouragement of this sympathy to assure 
them of success. 

“They are brave, are they not?” 

“Their courage has never been surpassed.” 

“And true and faithful to each other?” 

“A fidelity that can not be shaken.” 

“ Have they no jealousies or petty rivalries 
to divide them ?” 

“None — ^or next to none. The deadly ha- 
tred to the Saxon buries all discords between 
them.” 

“What want they more than this, then, to 
achieve independence? Surely no army that 
England can spare could meet a people thus 
united ?” 

“The struggle is far from an equal one, be- 
tween a regular force and a mere multitude. 
But let us suppose that they should conquer: 
who is to say to what end the success may be 
directed? There are fatal examples abroad. 
Is it to establish the infidelity of France men 
should thus sell their lives ? Is it standing here 
as we do now, in the city and stronghold of the 
Church, that we can calmly contemplate a con- 
flict that may end in worse than a heresy ?” 

“There can not be worse than some here- 
sies,” broke in the Cardinal. 

“Be it so; but here might be the cradle of 
many. The sympathy long entertained toward 
France would flood the land with all her doc- 
trines ; and this island, where the banner of 
faith should be unfurled, may become a fastness 
of the infidel.” 

“ Magna est veritas et prevalebit,” exclaimed 
the Cardinal, sententiously. 

“Any thing will ‘prevail’ if you have grape 
and canister to enforce it. Falsehood, as well 
as truth, only needs force to make it victorious.” 

“For a while — for a short while — holy Fa- 
ther.” 

“What is human life but a short while? 
But to our theme. Are we to aid these men or 
not? It is for our flag they are fighting now. 
Shall we suffer them to transfer their allegi- 
ance?” 

“The storm is about to break, your Emi- 
nence,” said the Cardinal’s major-domo, as he 


116 


GERALD EITZGERALD, 


presented himself, suddenly. “Shall I order 
the carriages back to the stables ?” 

“No; I am ready. I shall set out at once. 
You shall hear from me to-morrow or next day, 
Massoni,” said he, in a low whisper ; “or, bet- 
t/er still, if you could come out to Albauo to see 
me.” 

The Pere bowed deeply, without speaking. 

“ These arc not matters to be disposed of in 
a day, or an hour; we must have time.” 

The Pere bowed again, and withdrew. As 
he turned his steps homeward, his thoughts had 
but one subject. “What was the game his 
Eminence was bent on ? What scheme was he 
then revolving in his mind?” 

Once more beside the sick bed of young Ger- 
ald, all Massoni’s fears for the future came 
back. What stuff was there in that poor, 
broken-spirited youth, whose meaningless stare 
now met him, of which to make the leader in a 
perilous enterprise. Every look, every gesture, 
but indicated a temperament soft, gentle, and 
compliant ; and if by chance he uttered a stray 
word, it was spoken timidly and distrustfully, 
like one who feared to give trouble. Never did 
there seem a case where the material was less 
suited for the purpose for which it was meant; 
and the Pere gazed down at him, as he lay in 
deep and utter despondency. In the immense 
difficulty of the case all its interest reposed ; 
and he felt what a triumph it would be, could 
he only resuscitate that dying youth, and make 
him the head of a great achievement. It was 
a task that might try all his resources, and he 
resolved to attempt it. 

We will not weary our reader with the un- 
eventful story of that recovery: the progress so 
painfully slow that its steps were imperceptible, 
and the change which gradually converted the 
state of fatuity to one of speculation, and finally 
brought the youth out of sickness and suffering, 
and made him — weak and delicate, of course — 
able to feel enjoyment in life and eager for its 
pleasures. If Gerald could never fathom the 
mystery of all the care bestowed upon him, nor 
guess why he was thus tended and w'atched, as 
little could the Pere Massoni comprehend the 
strange features of that intellect which each 
day’s experience continued to reveal to him. 
Through all the womanly tenderness of his 
character there ran a vein of romantic as])ira- 
tion, undirected and unguided it is true, but 
which gave promise of an ambitious spirit. 
That some great enterprise had been the dream 
of his early youth — some adventurous career — 
seemed a fixed notion with himself ; and why, 
and how, and wherefore its accomplishment had 
been interrupted, was the difficulty that often 
occupied his thoughts for hours. In his vain 
endeavors to trace back events, snatches of his 
early life would rise to his memory: his sick 
bed at the Tana — his wanderings in the Mar- 
emma — the simple songs of Marietta — the spirit- 
stirring verses of Alfieri ; and through these, as 
dark clouds lowering over a sunny landscape, the 
bitter lessons of Gabriel Requetti — his cold sar- 


casm and his clisbelief. For all vicissitudes of 
the youth’s life tlie I’tre was pre})ared, but not 
for that strange discursive reading of which his 
memory was filled ; and it was not easy to under- 
stand by what accident his mind had been stored 
w ith snatches of Jacobite songs — passages from 
Pascal — dreary reveries of Jean Jacques, and 
heroic scenes of Alfieri. 

Led on to study the singular character of the 
youth’s mind, Massoni conceived for him at 
length a strong affection ; but though recogniz- 
ing how much of good and amiable there was 
in his disposition, he saw, too, that the intellect 
had been terribly disturbed, and that the dread- 
ful scenes he had gone through had left their 
indelible traces upon him. 

Scarcely a day passed that the Pere did not 
change his mind about him. At one moment 
he w'onld feel confident that Gerald Avas the 
very stuff' they needed, bold, high-hearted, and 
daring; at the next, he Avould sink into de- 
spondency over the youth’s child-like wayw'ard- 
ness — his uncertainty, and his capriciousness. 
There Avas really no fixity of character about 
him ; and even in his most serious moods, droll 
and absurd images Avould present themseh’es to 
his mind, and turn at once all the current of 
his thoughts. While Aveeks rolled OA'er thus, 
the Pere continued to assure the Cardinal that 
the young man Avas gradually gaining in health 
and strength, and that even his AA^eakly, con- 
valescent state gave evidence of traits that of- 
fered noble promise of a great future. 

KnoAving all the importance of the first im- 
pression the youth should make on his Emi- 
nence, the Pere continued by A'arious pretexts 
to defer the day of the meeting. The Cardinal, 
hoAvever, Avas peremptory; and the morning Avas 
at last fixed. 

— px' 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Jesuit’s stkoke of policy. 

Although the Pere Massoni desired greatly 
to inform Gerald on all the circumstances of his 
parentage and his su])posed rights, he ])erceivcd 
all the importance of letting that communica- 
tion come from the Cardinal Caraffa. It Avas 
not merely that the youth Avould himself be more 
impressed by the tidings, but that the Cardinal 
Avould be so much the more pledged to the cause 
in Avhich he had so far interested himself. 

To accomplish this project, the Jesuit had 
recourse to all his address, since his Eminence 
continued to maintain a policy of strict reseiwe, 
pledging himself to nothing, and simply saying, 
“When I have seen him, and spoken Avith him, 
it Avill be time enough to give an o])inion as to 
the future.” 

To this Massoni objected, by alluding to the 
evil effect of such Avant of confidence. 

“He Avill be a prince Avith royal rights and 
belongings, one of these days ; and he Avill not 
forget the cold reserve of all this policy ; where- 


*‘THE CHEVALIER.” 


11 


as, on the other hand, lie would never cease to 
remember with gratitude him from whose lips 
he first learned his good fortune.” 

He urged these and similar arguments with 
all his zeal, but yet unsuccessfully ; and it aY‘^s 
only at last, when he said that he would appeal 
to the Cardinal York, that Carafia yielded, and 
agreed to concede to his wishes. 

The Here had procured copies of various 
documents which established the marriage of 
Prince Charles Edward with Grace Fitzgerald 
of Cappa Glynn ; a record of the baptism of 
Gerald, who was born at Marne, in Brittany; 
several letters in the handwriting of the Prince, 
acknowledging his marriage, and speaking of 
his child as one some day or other to enjoy a 
princely state ; and a fragment of a letter from 
Grace herself, in which she speaks of the cruelty 
of asking her to surrender the proofs of her mar- 
riage, and pleads in the name of her boy for its 
recognition. Another letter from her, evidently 
in answer to one from the Cardinal York, whose 
intercession she had entreated, gave some most 
touching details of her life of poverty and priva- 
tion, and the straits by which she avoided the 
discovery of a secret which to herself would have 
been the source of greatness and high station. 
Numerous letters in the hand-w'riting of the 
Cardinal Gualterio also showed the unavailing 
efforts made by the Prince’s family to induce 
her to give a formal denial to the reputed mar- 
riage ; in these, frequent mention w'as made of 
the splendid compensation that w'ould be made 
to Grace Fitzgerald if she relinquished her 
claim, and the total inutility of persisting to sus- 
tain it. 

All these documents had been obtained by 
Carrol, either original or copied, from the Fitz- 
geralds of Cappa Glynn. Most of these had 
been in Grace’s own possession, and some had 
been brought from Rome by Fra Luke, when he 
left that city for Ireland. A list of these papers, 
with their contents, had been furnished to the 
Cardinal Caraffa, accompanied by a short paper 
drawn up by Massoni himself. In this “me- 
moir,” the Pere had distinctly showm that the 
question of the youth’s legitimacy w^as indispu- 
table, and that even if his Eminence demurred 
to the project of making him the head of a great 
political movement, his right as heir to the 
Prince could not be invalidated. 

The Cardinal bestowed fully three Avecks over 
these records before he gave any reply to Mas- 
soni, and then he ansAvered in a tone of half- 
careless and discouraging meaning, “ that the 
papers Avere curious — interesting, too — from the 
high station of many of the Avriters, but e\ddently 
deficient as proofs of a matter so pregnant Avith 
great results.” He hinted also, that from the 
wayAvard, adventurous kind of life Charles Ed- 
Avard led, a charge of this nature Avould not be 
difficult to make, and eA'en support by very plau- 
sible evidence of its truth ; and lastly, he assured 
the Pere that the Avill of his Royal Highness con- 
tained no allusion to sitch an heir, nor any pro- 
vision for him. 


“You seem to make a point of my seeing the 
youth, to which I do not i)erceive there is any 
objection, but that you coui)le it Avith the condi- 
tion of my making liim the momentous commu- 
nication of his birth and rank. Surely, you can 
not mean that on the vague evidence noAV before 
me, I am to pledge myself to tliese facts, and in- 
dorse documents so unsubstantiated as these arc? 
As to your opening any communication Avith the 
Cardinal York, I can not listen to it. His Emi- 
nence is in the most precarious state of health, 
and his neiwous irritability so intense, that any 
such step on your part Avould be highly indisci'Cet. 
If, therefore, it be your determination to take 
this course, mine is as firmly adopted — to Avith- 
draAV altogether from any interest in the affair. 
The earlier I learn from you Avhich line you in- 
tend to pursue, the more agreeable it will be to 
“Your very true friend, 

“Caraffa, Cardinal.” 

Massoni returned no reply to this letter. The 
crafty father saAV that the threat of addres'ing 
the Cardinal York had so far affrighted Caraffa, 
that he Avas sure to come to any terms that might 
av'oid this contingency. To leaA’e this menace 
tOAVork sloAvly, gradually, and poAA'erfully into 
his mind, Massoni at once decided. 

When, therefore, after a Aveek’s silence, the 
Cardinal sent him a fcAV lines to intimate that 
his former letter remained unansAA'’ered, the Per'' 
simply said, that his Eminence’s letter Avas c 
Avhich, in his humility, he could only reflect over 
and not ansAver. 

The day after he had dispatched this, a plain 
carriage, Avithout arms, and the servants in dark 
gray liveries, drove into the college, and the Car- 
dinal Caraffa got out of it, and asked to see the 
Rector. 

With a cheek slightly flushed, and a haughty 
step, Caraffa entered the little library, Avhere 
the Pere Avas seated at study, and though Mas- 
soni’s reception Avas marked by eA'ery obseiwance 
of respectful humility, his Eminence sharply 
said : 

“You carry your head high Pere Massoni. 
You luiA'e a haughty spirit. Is it that your fo- 
miliarity Avith Royalty has taught you to treat 
Cardinals thus caA'alierly ?” 

“I am the humblest slav'e and servant of A'our 
Eminence,” Avas the submissiA'e answ'er, as Avitli 
arms crossed upon his breast and head bent for- 
Avard, Massoni stood before him. 

“ I should be sorry to have a Avhole household 
of such material,” said the Cardinal, Avith a su- 
percilious smile ; then, after a moment, and in 
an easier, lighter tone of banter he said , “And 
His Royal Highness, Pere, how is he?” 

“The Prince is better, your Eminence : he is 
able to Avalk about the garden, Avhere he is at 
this moment.” 

“The cares of his estate have not, I trust, 
interfered with his recovery,” said Caraffa, in the 
same accent of mockery. 

“If he does not yet knoAV them,” said MaS' 
Boni, graA'cly, “ it is becauso in my deference to 


118 


GEKALD FITZGERALD, 


your Eminence, I have waited for yourself to 
make the communication.” 

“ Are you still decided, then, that he must be 
of royal race ?” 

“I see no reason why he should be robbed of 
his birth-right.” 

“Would you make him the heir of Charles 
Edward ?” 

“He is so.” 

“King of England, too?” 

“If legitimacy mean any thing, he is that 
also.” 

“ Arnulph tells us, that when a delusion gets 
hold of a strong intellect, it grows there like an 
oak that has its roots in a rock: its progress 
slow, its development difficult, but its tenacity 
ineradicable.” 

“Your Eminence’s logic w’ould be excellent 
in its application, but that you have assumed the 
whole question at issue ! Are you so perfectly, 
sure that this is a delusion ?” 

“ Let us talk like men of the w'orld, Fere Mas- 
soni,” said Caraffa, bluntly. “ If this tale be all 
true, what interest has it for you or me ?” 

“Its truth, your Eminence,” said the Fere, 
with a gesture of deep humility, as though by a 
show of respect to cover the bold rebuke of his 
wmrds. 

“ So far, of course, it claims our sympathy 
and our support,” said Caraffa, reddening ; “but 
my question was addressed rather to what w'ould 
carry a more worldly signification. I meant, in 
short, to what object could it contribute for 
which we are interested?” 

“I have already, and at great length, ex- 
plained to your Eminence, the importance of 
connecting the great convulsion of the day, with 
a movement in favor of monarchy and the 
church. When men wandered from the one, 
they deserted the other. Let us see if the bea- 
con that lights to the throne should not show 
the path to the shrine also.” 

“You would assuredly accept a very humble 
instrument to begin your w'ork with.” 

“A fisherman and a tent-maker sustained a 
grander cause against a whole world!” 

The Cardinal started. He was not, for a 
second or two, quite satisfied that the reply was 
devoid of profanity. The calm seriousness of 
Massoni’s face, however, showed that the speech 
was not uttered in a spirit of levity. 

“Fere Massoni,” said the Cardinal, serious- 
ly, “let us bethink ourselves well ere we are 
committed to the cause of this youth. Are we 
so sure that it is a charge will repay us ?” 

“I have given the matter the best and ma- 
turest reflection,” said the Fere ; “I have test- 
ed it in all ways as a question of right, of jus- 
tice, and of expediency ; I have w'eighed its in- 
fluence on the present, and its consequences on 
the future ; and I see no obstacles or difficul- 
ties, save such as present themselves where a 
great work is to be achieved.” 

“Had you lived in as close intimacy with the 
followers of the Stuarts as I have, Massoni, you 
would pause ere you linked the fortunes of an 


enterprise with a family so unlucky. Do you 
know,” added he, earnestly, “there was scarce- 
ly a mishap of the last expedition not directly 
traceable to the Frince.” 

The Fere shook his head in dissent. 

“You have not then heard, as I have, of his 
rashness, his levity. Ins fickleness, and worse 
than all these, his obstinacy.” 

“There is not one of these qualities without 
another name,” said the Fere, with a sad smile; 
“and they w^ould read as truthfully if called brav- 
ery, high-heartedness, versatility, and resolu- 
tion ; but were it all as your Eminence says, it 
matters not. Here is an enterprise totally dif- 
ferent. The cause of the Stuarts appealed to 
the chivalry of a people, and what a mere frag- 
ment of a nation accepts or recognizes such a 
sympathy. The cause of the Church will ap- 
peal to all that calls itself Catholic. The great 
element of failure in the Jacobite cause was 
that it never was a religious struggle : it was 
the assertion of legitimacy, the rights of a dy- 
nasty; and the question of the Faith, w^as only 
an incident of the conflict. Here,” he added, 
proudly, “it will be otherwise, and the greatest 
banner in the fight will be inscribed with a cross!” 

“Frince Charles Edward failed, wdth all the 
aid of France to back him ; and how is his sen 
— if he be his son — to succeed, who has no ally, 
no wealth, and no prestige?” 

“And do you not know that it was France 
and French treachery that wrecked the cause 
of the Stuarts? Did not the Cardinal Gualte- 
rio detect the secret correspondence between the 
Tuileries and St. James’s ? Is it not on record 
that the expedition was delayed three days in 
sailing, to give time to transmit intelligence to 
the English government?” 

“These are idle stories, Massoni; Gualterio 
only dreamed them.” 

“ Mayhap it was also a dream that the Frince 
was ordered to quit Faris in twenty-four hours, 
and the soil of France Avithin a week, at the ex- 
press demand of England?” 

“What you noAv speak of Avas a later policy, 
ignoble and mean I admit.” 

“ But Avhy AAmste time on the past ? Has your 
Eminence read the memoir I sent you?” 

“ I have.” 

“ Have you Avell and duly Aveighed the im- 
portance attached to the different character of 
the present scheme from all that has preceded 
it, and hoAv much that character is likely to de- 
rive support from the peculiarity of the Irish 
temperament ?” 

“Yes. It is a people eminently religious — 
steadfast in the faith.” 

“HaA'e you well considered that if this cause 
be not made our OAvn it Avill be turned against 
us ; that the agents of Irish indejiendence — 
Tone, Teeling, Jackson, and others — are in close 
communication Avith the French gOA'ernment, 
and earnestly entreating them to dispatch an 
expedition to Ireland?” 

“This Avould be indeed fatal to us,” said 
Caraffa, despondingly. 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


119 


“ And yet it is what will assuredly liappen if 
we do not intervene.” 

“ But can we prevent it?” 

“I believe that we can. I believe there is 
even yet time to make tlie strupjgle our own. 
But if there is not — if it be too late — we shall 
have a great game to play. A Protestant ris- 
ing must never have our support ! Better far 
for us to turn to the government, and by this 
ostentatious show of our allegiance, lay founda- 
tion for future demands and concessions.” 

The Cardinal bent his head twice, in ap- 
proval. 

“ All these things, however, combine to show 
that we must be up and stirring. Many who 
would be with us, if they were sure of our going 
forward, will take service with Tone and his 
party, if we delay. Carrol himself was pledged 
to report in person to the secret committee at 
Waterford by the eighth of the month, and we 
are now at the seventeenth. These delays arc 
serious ! This letter from Hussey, which only 
reached me last night, will show your Eminence 
how eagerly our answer is awaited.” 

The Cardinal made a gesture of impatience, 
as he declined the proffered letter. 

“It is not,” said he, “by such considerations 
we are to be sw'ayed, Massoni.” 

“Hussey insists on knowing whether or not 
your Eminence is with them,” said the Pere, 
boldly ; “ and if you have recognized the young 
Prince.” 

“ So, then, he knows of your secret,” said the 
Cardinal, with a sly malice. 

“He knew of this youth’s birth and station 
ere I did myself : he was the confessor of the 
Fitzgerald family, and attended Grace on her 
death-bed.” 

“Hussey, then, believes this story?” 

“He would swear to its truth, your Emi- 
nence.” 

“He is a crafty fellow, and one not easily to 
be deceived,” said Caraffa, musing. “Let me 
see his letter.” 

He took the letter from the Pere, and perused 
it carefully. 

“ I see little in this,” said he, handing it back, 
“ that you have not already told me.” 

“I have endeavored to make your Eminence 
acquainted with every thing that occurred,” said 
Massoni, with downcast eyes, but yet contriving 
to watch the countenance of the other atten- 
tively. 

“Monsignore Hussey, then, recommends, in 
case of any backw'ardness — such is his phrase — 
that you yourself should reveal to this youth the 
story of his descent. Have you thought over 
this counsel ?” 

“I have, your Eminence.” 

“Well, and to what conclusion has it led 
you ?” 

“That there was no other course open to 
me,” said Massoni, firmly. 

The Cardinal’s brow darkened, and he turned 
upon the Pere a look of insolent defiance. 

“ So, then, Pere Massoni, this is to be a trial 


of skill between us ; but I will net .cccept the 
challenge, sir. It is without shame that I con- 
fess myself unequal to a Jesuit in craftiness.” 

The Pere never spoke, but stood w’ith arms 
crossed, and bent down head, as if in thought. 

“It must be owned, sir,” continued Caraffa, 
scoffingly, “that you have no craven spirit. 
Most men, situated as you are, would have hes- 
itated ere they selected for their adversary a 
Prince of the Church.” 

Still was Massoni silent. 

“While, as to your protege, with one word 
of mine to the Minister of Police, he would be 
driven out of Rome — out of the States of the 
Church — as a vagabond.” 

The word had scarcely been uttered, when 
the door opened, and Gerald stood before them. 
For an instant he stood abashed at his intru- 
sion ; but Massoni stepped hastily forward, and 
taking his hand, said, 

“Your Eminence, this is the Chevalier!” 

Caraffa, who had knowm Charles Edward in 
his early life, stood actually like one thunder- 
struck before the youth, so exactly was he his 
counterpart. His full and soft blue eyes, the 
long silky hair, of a rich browm color, falling 
heavily on his neck, the mouth, half pouting and 
half proud, and the full chin, roundly moulded 
as a woman’s, were all there ; while in his air 
and mien a resemblance no less striking -was 
apparent.. By artful thoughtfulness of the Jes- 
uit Father, the youth’s dress was made to assist 
the schemes, for it was a suit of black velvet, 
such as Charles Edward used to w'ear when a 
young man ; a blue silk under-vest, barely ap- 
pearing, gave the impression that it Avas the rib- 
bon of the garter, Avhich the young Prince rarely 
laid aside. 

Not all the eloquence and all the subtlety cf 
Massoni could have accomplished the result 
which Avas in a moment effected by that appa- 
rition, and as Gerald stood half timidly, half 
haughtily there, Caraffii boAved Ioav, and Avith 
all the deference he Avould haA’e accorded to 
superior rank. For a second the dark eyes of 
the Jesuit flashed a gleam of triumph, but the 
next moment his look Avas calm and composed. 
The crafty Pere saAV that the battle Avas Avon if 
the struggle could be but concluded at once, 
and so, addressing Gerald in a tone of marked 
deference, he said, 

“I have long Avished for the day Avhen I 
should see this meeting ; that its confidence 
may be unbroken and undisturbed, I Avill Avith- 
clraAA’-,” and Avith a separate reverence to each, 
the Pere backed to the door and retired. 

Whatever suspicions might have occurred to 
the Cardinal’s mind had he but time for reflec- 
tion, there Avas noAV no opportunity to indulge. 
All had happened so rapidly, and above all 
there Avas still the spell over him of that resem- 
blance, which seemed every moment to increase ; 
such indeed Avas its influence, that it at once 
routed all the considerations of his prudent re- 
serve, and made him forget every thing save 
that he stood in the presence of a Stuart. 


120 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“If I am confused, sir, and agitated,” be- 
gan he, “at this our first meeting, lay it to the 
account of the marvelous resemblance by which 
you recall my recollection of the Prince, your 
father. I knew him wdien he was about your 
own age, and when he graciously distinguished 
me by many marks of his favor.” 

“My father!” said Gerald, over whose face 
a deep crimson blush first spread, and then a 
pallor equally great succeeded — “ did you say 
my father?” 

“Yes, sir. It w'as my fortune to be asso- 
ciated closely with his Royal Highness at St. 
Germains and afterward in Auvergne.” 

Overcome by his feeling of amazement at 
what he heard, and yet unable to summon 
calmness to inquire farther, Gerald sank into 
a chair, vainly trying to collect his faculties. 
Meanwhile Caraffa continued, 

“As an old man and a priest I may be for- 
given for yielding slowly to convictions, and for 
what almost would seem a reluctance to accept 
as fact the evidence of your birth and station ; 
but your presence, sir — your features as you sit 
there, the image of your father — appeal to some- 
thing more subtle than my reason, and I feel 
thait I am in the presence of a Stuart. Let me, 
then; be the first to offer the homage that is, or 
at least one day will be, your right;” and so, 
saying, the Cardinal took Gerald’s hand and 
pressed it to his lips. 

“Is this a dream?” muttered Gerald, half 
aloud — “is my brain wandering?” 

“Ho, sir, you are awake; the past has been 
the dream — the long years of sorrow and pov- 
erty — the trials and perils of j^our life of acci- 
dent and adventure — this has been the dream ; 
but you are now awake to learn that you are 
the true born descendant of a Royal House — a 
Prince of the Stuarts — the legitimate heir to a 
great throne!” 

“ I beseech you, sir,” cried Gerald, in a voice 
broken by emotion, while the tears filled his 
eyes, “I beseech you, sir, not to trifle Avith the 
feelings of one whose heart has been so long 
the spori't of fortune, that any, even the slight- 
est shock, may pi*ove too powerful for his 
strength.” 

“ You are, sir, all that I have said. My age 
and the dress I wear may be my guarantees tliat 
I do not speak idly nor rashly.” i 

A long-drawn sigh burst from the youth, and 
with it ho fainted. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“a gleam of BEAL LIGHT.” 

I KEMEMBEB once to have seen — I believe it 
W'as in Germany — a day rehearsal at a theatre, 
where the back of the stage opened by a spacious 
window upon a beautiful little arbor, in whose 
leafy recesses the blackbirds caroled away mer- 
rily, so as at times almost to drown the voices 
of the actors. The effect produced was very 


singular, as the light breeze stirred and mur- 
mured through the pliant foliage, wafting many 
a pleasant odor as it ])assed — contrasting so 
markedly with the stiff trees of the scene-]!aint- 
er, mute and motionless as they stood ; and al- 
though there was a certain truthfulness in the 
scene, and although there was no Avant of ability 
in the actors, so immeasurably superior in vital- 
ity Avere the tAVO or three “realities” present, 
that attention became at length riveted upon 
them, to the utter exclusioln of the others. 

If I have recalled the circumstance uoav to 
memory, it is to profit by it; I mean, in short, 
to admit one gleam of such daylight upon cur 
stage, not, at the same time, Avithout misgivings 
as to all the peril of my experiment, since I Avell 
remember the effect produced uj.on myself. 
The ray of real sunshine that I speak of, is the 
fragment of a letter from Sir CoiiAvay Seymour 
to Horace Walpole, Avritten from Rome, Avhere 
the Avriter had gone for reasons of health, and 
in Avhich the passing ncAvs and gossip of the day 
are narrated in all the careless freedom of 
friendly confidence. IMuch, by fiir the greater 
]:art, of the epistle, is filled up by artistic dis- 
cussion about pictures and statues, Avith little 
histories of the frauds and rogueries to AA’hich 
connoisseurship Avas exposed ; there is also a 
sprinkling of scandal, a light and flippant sketch 
of Roman moralities, aa hich reall}^ might have 
been AAuitten in cur OAA’n day ; some passing al- 
lusions to political events there are also ; and 
lastly, there comes the ] art Avhich more pecul- 
iarly concerns ourselves. After a little flourish 
of trumpets about his OAvn social success, and 
the cordial intimacy Avith Avhich he Avas admit- ^ 
ted into the best houses of Rome, he say.s, “ At- 
terbury’s letters of course opened many a door 
that would have been closed against me as an 
Englishman, and gave me facilities rarely ex- 
tended to one of our country. To this happy 
circumstance am I indebted for a scene which 
I can never eease to remember, as one of the 
strangest of my life. You are aAvare, that 
though at the great levees of the cardinals, 
large croAvds are assembled, many presenting 
themseh’es Avho have no personal acquaint- 
ance Avith the host, at th.e smaller receptions an 
exclusiveness prevuiils unknown in any other 
land. To such an excess has this been carried, 

I that to certain houses, such as the Abbezi, and 
the Piombino, few out of the rank of royalty are 
ever invited. To the former of these great fam- 
ilies it AA'as my fortune to be invited last Wednes- 
day, and although my gout entered a bold pro- 
test against dress shoes and buckles, I determ- 
ined to go. 

“ It Avas not Avithout surpiise I found that, al- 
though there Avere scarcely above a dozen car- 
riages in Availing, the great Abbezi Palace Avas 
lighted throughout its Avhole extent, the Avhole 
cour being illuminated Avith the blaze. I Avas 
aware that etiquette debarred his Holiness from 
eA^er being present at these occasions, And yet 
there Avas an amount of preparation and splem 
dor UOAV displayed that might Avell have indi- 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


catecl such an event. The servants’ coats were, 
I am told, white; but they Avere so plastered 
Avith gold that the original color Avas concealed. 
As for the magnificence of the Palace itself, 1 
Avill spare you all description, the more as I 
knoAv your heart still yearns after that beauti- 
ful Guercino of the ‘ tAvo angels,’ and the small 
Salvator of ‘St. John,’ for Avhich the Duke of 
Strozzi gave his castle at San Marcello ; neither 
Avill I torment your curious soul by any allusion 
to those great vases of Sevres, Avith landscapes 
painted by both. With more equanimity Avill 
you hear of the beautiful Marquesa d’Arco, in 
her diamond stomacher, and the DuChessa do 
Forti, Avith a coronet of brilliants that might buy 
a province, not to tell of the Colonna herself, 
AA'hose heaAy train, all studded over with jeAvels, 
turned many an eye from her noble countenance 
to gaze upon the floor. There Avere not above 
forty guests assembled AAdien I arrived, nor at 
any time Avere there aboA'e sixty present, but all 
appareled AAuth a magnificence that shamed the 
undecorated plainness of my humble court suit. 
After paying my homage to his Eminence, I 
turned to seek out those of my most intimate 
acquaintance present; but I soefn discovered 
tliat, from some mysterious cause, none Avere 
disposed to engage in conversation — nay, they 
did but converse in Avhispers, and AVith an ab- 
ruptness that bespoke expectancy of something 
to come. 

“ To Avhile aAvay the time pleasantly, I strolled 
through the rooms, all filled, as they Avcrc, Avith 
objects to Avin attention, and having made the 
tour of the Quadrangle, Avas returning to the 
♦great gallery, Avhen, passing the ante-chamber, 
I perceived that Cardinal York’s servants AAmre 
all ranged there, dressed in their fine scarlet 
liveries, a sight quite neAV to see. Nor Avas this 
the less remarkable, from the fact, that his Roy- 
al Highness is distinguished for the utter ab- 
sence of all that denotes ostentation or display. 
I entered the great gallery, therefore, Avith some- 
thing of curiosity to knoAV what this might be- 
token. The company Avas all ranged in a great 
circle, at one part of Avhicli a little group Avas 
gathered, in Avhich I had no difficulty in detect- 
ing the thin, sickly face of the Cardinal York, 
looking fully twenty years beyond his age, his 
frail figure bent nearly double. I could mark, 
besides, that presentations AA'ere being made, as 
different persons came up, made their reverence, 
and Avere detained, some more, some less, time 
in conA'ersation, avIio then retired, backing out 
as from a royal pi'csence. While I stood thus 
in Avonderment, Don Coesare, the brother of the 
Cardinal Abbezi, came up, and taking me by 
the arm, led me forAvard, saying, 

‘‘‘Caro Natzio,’ so he noAv calls me, ‘you 
must not be the last to make your homage here.’ 

“ ‘ And to Avhom am I to offer it ?’ asked I ea- 
gerly. 

“ ‘ToAvhombuttohim it is best due. To the 
Prince Avho ought to be King.’ 

“‘I am but a sorry expounder of riddles, 
Don Caisare,’ said I somcAvhat hurt, as you can 


121 

AA’ell imagine, by a speech so offensive to my 
loyalty. 

“‘Thei-e is less question here,’ replied be,* 
‘ of partisanship than of the courteous deference 
Avhich CAcry gentleman ungrudgingly accords to 
those of royal birth. This is the Prince of 
Wales, at least till he be called the King. He 
is the son of Charles EdAvard, and the last of 
the Stuarts.’ 

“Ere I had rallied from the astonishment of 
this strange announcement, the croAvd separated 
in front of me, and I found myself in the pres- 
ence of a tall and sickly-looking youth, Avhose 
marvelous resemblance to the Pretender actually 
overcame me. Nor Avas any artifice of costume 
omitted that could help out the likeness, for he 
Avore a sash of the Stuart tartan over his suit of 
maroon A'eh'et, and a curiously elaborate clay- 
more hung by his side. Mistaking me for the 
Prince D’Arco, he said, in the Ioav, soft voice 
of his race, 

“ ‘ IIoAv have you left the Princess ; or is sho 
at Rome?’ 

“‘This ii the CheA-alier de Seymour, may it 
please your R')yal Highness,’ Avhispered the Car- 
dinal Gualterio, ‘a gentleman of good and hon- 
orable name, though allied Avith a cause that' is 
not ours.’ 

“ ‘ Methinks all Englishmen might be friends 
of mine,’ said the Prince smiling sadly ; ‘at all 
events they need not be my enemies.’ He held 
out his hand as he spoke ; and so much of dig- 
nity Avas there in his air, so much of regal con- 
descension in his look, that. I knelt and kissed it. 

“Amid a Ioav, murmuring comment on his 
princely presence, yet not so Ioav but that he 
himself could hear it, I moved forAvard to give 
place to the next presentation. And so did the 
tide floAv on for aboA’-e an hour. Well knoAving 
AA'hat a gloss men Avould put upon all this, I hast- 
ened home, and Avrote it all to Sir Horace 
Mann, at Florence, assuring him that my loyal 
attachment to the house of Hanover Avas un- 
broken, and that his Majesty had no more faith- 
ful subject or adherent than myself. His reply 
is noAv before me as I Avrite. 

“ ‘We knoAV all about this youth,’ say's he. 

‘ Lord Chatham has had his portrait taken ; and 
if he come to England avc shall take measures 
in his behalf. As to yourself, ymu are no great- 
er fool than AA'ere the Duke of Beaufort and Lord 
Westmoreland Avitli the lad’s father.’ 

“Strange and significant Avords; and in no 
AA'ay denying the youth’s birth and parentage. 

“At all events, the circumstance is curious; 
and all Rome talks of it and nothing else, since 
the Walkinshaw, Avho ahvays took her airings in 
the Cardinal York’s carriage, and Avas treated 
as of royal rank, is noAv no more seen ; and ‘ the 
Prince,’ as he is styled, has taken her place, and 
even sits in the post of honor, Avith the Cardinal 
on his left hand. Are they enough minded of 
these things at home ; or do they laugh at dan- 
ger so far off as Italy? For my OAvn part, I 
say it, he is one to give trouble, and make of a 
bad cause a serious case of disaft’ection, in so 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


122 

nincli the more, tlnit men say he is a fatalist, 
and believes it will be his destiny to sit as king 
in England.” 

I would fain make a longer extract from this 
letter, were I not afraid that I have already 
trespassed too far upon my reader’s indulgence, 
by asking his attention to what is less a main 
portion of my story than a witness to its verac- 
ity. It is said that in the unpublished corre- 
spondence of Sir Horace Mann — a most import- 
ant contribution to the history of the time, if 
only given to the world in its entirety — would 
be found fi’equent allusion to the Chevalier de 
Fitzgerald, and the views entertained in his be- 
half. With all the professional craft of diplo- 
macy, the acute envoy detected the various de- 
grees of credence that were accorded to the 
youth’s legitimacy ; and saw how many there 
were who were satisfied to take all the benefit 
of his great name, for the purpose of intrigue, 
without ever sincerely interesting themselves in 
his cause. In the number of these adherents, 
the Jesuit 'father did not figure. His was a 
true, steadfast, high-hearted loyalty ; and as 
events seemed by their daily course to favor 
more and more the cause he loved, his spirit 
rose, his energies developed themselves, and, 
instead of the subdued priest, living the calm 
existence of the cloister, there appeared on the 
stage the bold and daring partisan of an almost 
desperate cause, and the subtle }>®litician, skill- 
ed in all the arts of diplomacy. 

Let US’ turn to him, for a brief space, once 

"" _ ^ 

CHARTER XX. 

THE TERE 3IASSOXl’S MISGIVIXGS. 

It was late at night, and all quiet and still in 
the Eternal City, as the I’ere Massoni sat in his 
little study intent upon a large map which oc- 
cupied the whole table before him. Strange 
blotches of color marked in various places, 
patches of blue and deep red, with outlines the 
most irregular appeared here and there, leaving 
very little of the surface without some tint. It 
was a map of Ireland, on which the successive 
confiscations Avere marked, and the A’arious 
changes of proprietorship indicated by different 
colors; a curious document, carefully drawn 
up, and Avhich had cost the labor of some years. 
Massoni studied it Avith such deep intensity that 
he had not noticed the entrance of a seiwant, 
who now stood Availing to deliver a letter Avhich 
he held in his hand. At last he perceiA'ed the 
man, and, hastily snatching the note, read to 
himself the folloAving feAv lines : 

“She Avill come to-morroAv, at noon. Give 
orders to admit her at once to him ; but do not 
yourself be there.” 

This AA'as signed “D,”and carefully folded 
and sealed. 

“ That AAoll do ; you need not Avait,” said the 
Pere, and again he Avas alone. For seA^eral 
minutes he continued to ponder OA'er the scenes 


before him, and then, throAving them cn the ta- 
ble, exclaimed aloud, “And this is the boasted 
science of medicine! Here is the most learned 
physician of all Rome — the trusted of Popes 
and Cardinals — confessing that there are jihases 
of human malady to Avhich, Avhile his art gives 
no clue — a certain mysterious agency — a some- 
thing compounded of imposture and fanaticism, 
can read and decipher. What an ignoble 
aA'OAval is this, and Avhat a sarcasm upon all in- 
tellect and its labors. And Avhat Avill be said 
of me,” cried he, in a louder A'oice, “if it be 
known that I have lent my credence to such a 
doctrine? that I, the head and leader of a great 
association, should stoop to take counsel from 
those Avho, if they be not cheats and impostors, 
must needs be Averse I And, if Averse, Avhat 
then ?” muttered he, as he dreAv his hand across 
his broAV as though to clear aAvay some difficult 
and distressing thought. “Ay, Avhat then? 
Are there really diabolic agencies at Avork in 
those ministrations ? Are these miraculous rev- 
elations that Ave hear of ascribable to evil influ- 
ences ? What if it Avere not trick and legerde- 
main ? What if Satan had really seized upon 
these passers of base money, to mingle his OAvn 
coinage Avith theirs ? If every imposture be his 
Avork, Avhy should he not act through those Avho 
haA^e contrived it ? Oh, if Ave could but knoAV 
Avhat are the truthful suggestions of inspiration, 
and Avhat the crafty devices of an erring brain ! 
If, for instance, I could noAV see hoAv far the 
great cause to Avhich my life is deA'oted should 
be served or tliAA'arted by the enterprise.” 

He Avalked the room for nigh an hour in deep 
and silent meditation. 

“I Avill see her myself,” cried he, at length. 
“ All her stage tricks and cunning Avill avail her 
little Avith me; and if she really have high poAv- 
ers, Avhy should they not be turned to our use ? 
When Satan piled evil upon evil to shoAv his 
strength, St. Francis made of the mass an altar! 
Well, now, Giacomo, Avhat is it?” asked he, 
suddenly, as his seiwant entered. 

“He has fallen asleep at last, reA'erend fa- 
ther,” ansAvered he, “ and is breathing softly as 
a child. He can not fail to be better for this 
repose, for it is noAv five days and nights since 
he has closed an eye.” 

“Never since the night of the reception at 
Cardinal Abbezi’s.” 

“ That Avas a fatal experiment, I much fear,” 
muttered Giacomo. 

“It may have been so. Who knoAvs — Avho 
ever did or could knoAv Avith certainty the one 
true path out of difficulty ?” 

“When he came back on that night,” con- 
tinued Giacomo, “he would ^ot suffer me to 
undress him, but threAV himself doAvn on the 
bed, as he AA’as, saying, ‘Leave me to myself; 
I would be alone.’ 

“ I offered to take off his SAvord and the gold- 
en collar of his order, but he bade me angrily 
to desist, and said, 

“ ‘These are all that remind me of what I 
am, and you Avould rob me of them.’ ” 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


123 


“True enough; the pegcantiy -was a brief 
dream ! And what said he next ?” 

“He talked wildly about his cruel fortunes, 
and the false friends who had misguided liim in 
his youth, saying, 

“ ‘ These things never came of blind chance ; 
the destinies of princes are written in letters of 
gold, and not traced in the sands of the sea. 
They who betrayed my father have misled 

“How like his house,” exclaimed the Per*; 
“ arrogant in the very hour of their destitution!” 

“ He then went on to rave about the Scottish 
wars, speaking of jjlaces and people I had never 
before heard of. After lamenting the duplicity 
of Spain, and declaring that French treachery 
had been their ruin, ‘and now,’ cried he, ‘the 
game is to be played over again, as though it 
were in the day of general demolition — men 
would struggle to restore a worn-out dynasty.’ ” 

“ Did he speak thus ?” cried Massoni, eagerly. 

“ Yes, he said the words over and over, add- 
ing, ‘I am but the “figurino,” to be laid aside 
Avhen the procession is over,’ and he wept bit- 
terly.” 

“The Stuarts could always find comfort in 
tears ; tliey could draw upon their own sympa- 
thies unfailingly. What said he of ine?'' asked 
he, with sudden eagerness. 

Giacomo was silent, and folding his arms 
within his robe of serge, cast his eyes down- 
ward. 

“Speak out, and frankly — what said he?” 
repeated the Fere. 

“That you were ambitious — one whose heart 
yearned after worldly elevation and power.” 

“Power — yes!” muttered the Pere. 

“That once engaged in a cause, your ener- 
gies would be wholly with it, so long as you 
directed and guided it ; that he had known men 
of your stamp in France during the Revolution, 
and that the strength of their convictions was 
more often a source of weakness than of power.” 

“It was from Gabriel Requetti that he stole 
the remark. It was even thus Mirabeau spoke 
of our order.” 

“You must be right, reverend father, for he 
continued to talk much of this same Requetti, 
saying that he alone, of all Europe, could have 
restored the Stuarts to England. ‘ Had we one 
such man as that,’ said he, ‘ and I now had been 
lying in Holyrood Palace.’” 

“He was mistaken there,” muttered Massoni, 
half aloud. “The men Avho are without faith 
raise no lasting edifices. How strange,” added 
he, aloud, “ that the Prince should have spoken 
in this wise. When I have been with him he 
was ever wandering, uncertain, incoherent.” 

“And into this state he gradually lapsed, 
singing snatches of peasant songs to himself, 
and mingling Scottish rhymes with Alfieri’s 
verses ; sometimes fancying himself in all the 
wild conflict of a street-fight in Paris, and then 
thinking that he was strolling along a river’s 
bank with some one that he loved.” 

“Has he then, loved?” asked Massoni, in a 
low distinct voice. 


“From chance words that have escaped him 
in his wanderings 1 have gathered as much, 
though who she was and whence, or what her 
station in life, I can not guess.” 

“ She will tell us this,” muttered the Pere 
to himself ; and then turning to Giacomo, said, 
“to-morrow, at noon, that woman they call the 
Egyptian Princess is to be here ; she is to come 
in secret to sec him. The Prince of Piombirio 
has arranged it all, and says that her marvelous 
gift is never in fault, all hearts being open to 
her as a printed page, and men’s inmost thoughts 
as legible as their features.” 

“Is it an evil possession?” asked Giacomo, 
tremblingly. 

“ Who can dare to say so? Let us wait and 
watch. Take care that the small door that 
opens from the garden upon the Pintean be left 
ajar, as she will come by that way; and let 
there be none to observe or note her coming. 
You will yourself meet her at the gate, and con- 
duct her to his chamber — where leave her.” 

‘ ‘ If Rome should hear that we have accepted 
such aid — ” 

A gesture of haughty contempt from the Pere 
interrupted the speech, and Massoni said, 

“Are not they with troubled consciences fre- 
quent visitors at our shrines ? Might not this 
woman come, as thousands have come, to have 
a doubt removed ; a case of conscience satisfied ; 
a heresy arrested? Besides, she is a Pagan,” 
added he suddenly ; “ may she not be one eager 
to seek the truth ?” The cold derision of his 
look, as he spoke, awed the simple servitor, who, 
meekly bending his head, retired. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE EGYPTIAN. 

Our reader is already fully aware of the rea- 
sons which influenced the Pere Massoni to adopt 
the cause of young Fitzgerald. It was not any 
romantic attachment to an ancient and illustri- 
ous house ; as little was it any conviction of a 
right. It was simply an expedient which seem- 
ed to promise largely for the one cause which the 
Jesuit father deemed worthy of a man’s life-long 
devotion — the Church. To impart to the terri- 
ble struggle which in turn ravaged every coun- 
try in Europe a royalist feature, seemed to his 
thoughtful mind, the one sole issue out of pres- 
ent calamity. His theory was : after the hom- 
ace to the throne will come back reverence to 
the altar. 

For a while the Pere suffered himself to indulge 
the most sanguine hopes of success. Through- 
out Europe generally men were wearied of that 
chaotic condition which the French Revolution 
had introduced, and already longed for the re- 
construction of society, in some shape or other. 
By the influence of able agents, the Church had 
contrived to make her interest in the cause of 
order perceptible, and artfully suggested the 


124 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


])leasant contrast of a society based on peace 
and harmony, with the violence and excess of 
a revolutionary struggle. 

Had the personal character of young Gerald 
been equal, in Massoni’s estimation, to the emer- 
gency, the enterprise might have been deemed 
most hopeful. If the youth had been daring, 
venturous, and enthusiastic, heedless of conse- 
quences and an implicit follower of tlie Church, 
much might have been made of him ; out of 
his sentiment of religious devotion would have 
sprung a deference and a trustfulness which 
would have rendered him manageable. But, 
though he was all these, at times, he was fifty 
other things as well. There was not a mood of 
the human mind that did not visit him in turns, 
and while one day would see him grave, earnest, 
and thoughtful, dignified in manner, and grace- 
ful in address, on the next he -would appear 
reckless and indifferent, a scoffer, and a skeptic. 
The old poisons of his life at the Tana still linger- 
ed in his system and corrupted his blood ; and 
if, for a moment, some high-hearted ambition 
would move him — some chivalrous desire for 
great things — so surely would come back the ter- 
rible lesson of Mirabeau to his mind, and dis- 
trust darken, with its ill-omened frown, all that 
had seemed bright and glorious. 

After the first burst of proud elation on discov- 
ering his birth and lineage, he became thought- 
ful and serious, and at times sad. He dwelt fre- 
quently and painfully upon the injustice with 
which his early youth was treated, and seemed 
fully to feel that, if some political necessity — of 
what kind he could not guess — had not render- 
ed the acknowledgment convenient, his claims 
might still have slept on, unrecognized and un- 
known. Among his first lessons in life Requetti 
had instilled into him a haughty defiance of all 
who would endeavor to use him as a tool. 

“ Remember,” he would say, “that the men 
who achieve success in life the oftenest, are they 
who trade upon the faculties of others. Beware 
of these men ; for their friendship is nothing less 
than a servitude.” 

To what end, for what object am I now with- 
drawn from obscurity ? were his constant ques- 
tions to himself. The priest and his craft were 
objects of his greatest suspicion, and the thought 
of being a mere instrument to their ends was a 
downright outrage. In this way, Massoni was 
regarded by him with intense distrust ; nor could 
even his gratitude surmount the dread he felt for 
the Jesuit father. These sentiments deepened, 
as he lay, hours long, awake at night till, at 
length, a low fever seized him, and long inter- ! 
vals of dreary incohercncy would break the tenor 
of his sounder thoughts. It had been deemed 
expedient by the Cardinal York, and his other 
friends, that young Gerald should continue to re- 
side at the Jesuit College till some definite steps 
were taken to declare his rank to the world and ! 
the very delay in this announcement w'as an- 
other reason of suspicion. 

“ If I be the prince you call me, why am I 
detained in this imprisonment ? Why am I not 


among my equals ; why not confronted with 
some future that I can look boldly in the face? 
Would they make a priest of me, as they have 
done with my uncle? AVhere are the noble- 
hearted followers who rallied around my father? 
Where the brave adherents who never deserted 
even his exile ? Are they all gone, or have they 
died ? and, if so, is not the cause itself dead ? 

These and such like were the harassing doubts 
that troubled him, till eventually his mind bal- 
anced between a morbid irritability and a set- 
tled, intense apathy. The most learned physi- 
cians of Rome had been called to sec him, hut, 
though in a great measure agreeing in the na- 
ture of his case, none succeeded in suggesting 
any remedy for it. Some advised society, trav- 
eling, amusement, and so on. Others were dis- 
posed to recommend rest and quietude; others, 
again, deemed that he should be engaged in 
some scheme or enterprise likely to awaken his 
ambition ; but all these plans had soon to give 
])lace to immediate cares for his condition, for 
his strength was perceived to be daily declining, 
and his energy of body as well of mind, giving 
way. For some days back the Fere had debated 
with himself whether he Avould not unfold to 
him the grand enterprise Avhich he meditated ; 
point out to the youth the glorious opportunity 
of future distinction, and the splendid prize Avhich 
should reward success. He would have revealed 
the whole plot long before had he not been un- 
der a pledge to the Cardinal Caraflfa not to di- 
vulge it w’ithout his sanction, and in his presence ; 
and noAV came the question of Gerald’s life, and 
whether he would survh'e till the return of his 
Eminence from Baris, whither he had gone to 
fetch back his niece. Such was the state of things 
when Doctor Danizetti declared that medicine 
had exhausted its resources in the youth’s behalf, 
and suggested, as a last resource, that a certain 
Egyptian lady, Avhose marvelous powers had at- 
tracted all the attention of Rome should be call- 
ed in to see him, and declare Avhat she thought 
cf his case. 

This Egyptian Princess, as report called her, 
had taken up her abode at a small deserted con- 
vent near Albano, living a life of strict retire- 
ment, and only known to the peasants of the 
neighborhood by the extraordinary cures she had 
performed, and the wonderful recoveries which 
her instrumentality had effected. The secreev 
of her mode of life, and the impossibility cf learn- 
ing any details of her histoiy, added to the fact 
that none had yet seen her unveiled, gaA e a sort 
of romantic interest to her which soon spread 
into a sort of fame. Besides these, the most as- 
tonishing tales Avere told of epileptic cases cured, 
deaf and dumb men restored to hearing and 
speech, even instances of insanity successfully 
treated, so that, at length, the little shrines of 
patron saints, once so devoutly sought after by 
1 Avorshiping believers, praying that St. Agatha 
or St. Nasala might intercede on their behalf, 
AA'ere noAv forsaken, and croAA'ds gathered in the 
little court of the convent eagerly entreating the 
: Princess to look favorably on their sufferings. 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


125 


These facts — at first only wliispered — at length 
gained the ears of Rome, and priests and cardi- 
nals began to feel that out of this trifling inci- 
dent grave consequences might arise, and coun- 
sel was held among tliem whether this danger- 
ous foreigner should not be summarily sent out 
of the state. 

The decision would, doubtless, have been 
quickly come to had it not been that at the very 
moment an infant child of the Prince Altieri 
owed its life to a suggestion made by the Egyp- 
tian, to whom a mere lock of the child’s hair was 
given. Sorcery or not, here was a service that 
could not be overlooked ; and, as the Prince Al- 
tieri was one whose influence spread widely, the 
thought of banishment was abandoned. 

The Pere Massoni, who paid at first but little 
attention to the stories of her wondrous powers, 
was at length astonished on hearing from the 
Professor Danizetti, some striking instances of 
her skill, which seemed, however, less that of a 
consummate physician, than of one who had stud- 
ied the mysterious influences of the moral over 
the material part of our nature. It was in esti- 
mating how far the mind swayed and controlled 
the nervous system, whether they acted in har- 
mony or discordance, seemed her great gift; and 
to such a degree of perfection had she brought 
her powers in this respect, that the tones of a 
voice, the expression of an eye, and the texture 
of the hair, appeared often suflicient to intimate 
the fate of the sick man. Danizetti confessed, 
that, though long a skeptic as to her powers, he 
could no longer resist the force of what he wit- 
nessed, and owned that in her art the great se- 
crets were yet unrevealed to science. 

He had made great efforts to see and to know 
her, but in vain ; indeed she did not scruple' to 
confess, that for medicine and its regular follow- 
ers, she had slight respect. She deemed them 
as walkers in the dark, and utterly lost to the only 
lights which could elucidate disease. Through 
the Prince Altieri’s intervention, for he had met 
her in the East, she consented to visit the Jesuit 
College, somewhat proud, it must be owned, to 
storm as it were, the very stronghold of that 
incredulity, which priestcrafe professed for her 
abilities. For this reason was it she insisted that 
her visit should be paid in open day — at noon. 
I will see none but the sick man, said she, and 
yet all shall mark my coming, and perceive that 
even these great and learned fathers have con- 
descended to ask for my presence and my aid. 

I would that the Avorld should see how even these 
holy men can worship an unknown God ! 

Nor did the Pere Massoni resent this pride ; 
on the contrary, he felt disposed to respect it. 
It was a bold assumption that well pleased him. 

As the hour of her visit drew nigh, Mas.soni 
having given all the directions necessary to in- 
sure secrecy, repaired himself to the little tower 
from which a view extended over the vast cam- 
pagna. A solitary carriage traversed it on the 
road from Albano, and this he watched with un- 
broken anxiety, till he saw it enter the gate of 
Home, and gradually ascend the Pintcan hill. 


“The Egyptian has come to her time,” said 
he to Giacomo: “yonder is her carriage at the 
gate; and the youth, is he still sleeping?” 

‘ ‘ Yes, he has not stirred for hours ; he breathes 
so lightly that he scarcely seems alive, and his 
cheeks are colorless as death.” 

“There, yonder she comes; she walks like 
one in the prime of life. She is evidently not 
old, Giacomo.” 

From the window where they stood, they could 
mark a tall, commanding figure moving slowly 
along the garden walk, and stopping at moments 
to gather flowers. A thick black veil concealed 
in some degree her form, but could not alto- 
gether hide the graceful motion with which she 
advanced. 

« 

CHAPTER XXII. 

“the pere axd the princess.” 

Gerald Avas lying on a couch in his habitual 
mood of half dreamy consciousness, when the 
Egyj)tian entered. Her tall and stately figure, 
veiled to the very feet, moving Avith a proud but 
graceful step, seemed scarcely to arrest his no- 
tice for a moment, and his eyes fell again upon 
a few wild flowers that lay beside liim. 

Making a sign to the servant tliat she Avould 
be alone, the Egyptian drcAv nigh the couch, and 
stood silently regarding him. After a Avhile, 
she raised one arm till the hand Avas extended 
: over his head, and held it thus some minutes. 
He lifted up his eyes toAvard her, and then, Avith 
a sort of wearied motion, dropped them again, 
heaved a heaA'y sigh, and seemed to sink into a 
sleep. 

Touching the centre of his forehead Aviih her 
forefinger, she stood for some minutes motion- 
less; and then sloAvly passed her hand OA^er his 
face, and laid it gently on his heart; a slight, 
scarcely perceptible shudder shook the j’outh’s 
frame at this instant, and then he Avas still ; so 
still and so motionless, that he appeared like 
one dead. She noAv breathed strongly two or 
three times over his face, making with her hands 
a motion, as though sprinkling a fluid over him. 
As she did so, the youth’s lips slightly opened, 
and something like a faint smile seemed to set- 
tle on his features. Bending doAvn she laid 
her ear close to his lips, like one listening ; she 
AA'aite<I a fcAV seconds, and then, in a voice that 
slightly trembled, Avith a thrill of joyous emo- 
tion, she Avhispered out : 

“You have not, then, forgotten, Gherardi 
Mio; those happy hours still live within your 
memory.” 

The sleejier’s mouth moved Avithout a sound, 
but she seemed to gather the meaning of the 
motion ; as, after a brief pause, she said : “And 
the Avell under the old myrtle-tree, at San Do- 
nino; hast forgotten True enough,” add- 

ed she, as if replying; “it seems like an age 
since Ave Avalked that mountain road together; 
but we Avill stroll there again, dear brother; 


GEKALD FITZGERALD, 


126 

nay, start not, tliou knowest well why I call thee 
so. And we’ll wander along the little stream 
under the old walls of Massa, beneath the or- 
ange-trees ; and listen to the cicala in the hot 
noon, and catch glimpses of the blue sea through 
the olives. Happier days ! that they were. No, 
no, child,” cried she, eagerly; “thou art not 
of a mould for such an enterprise ; besides they 
would but entrap thee — there is no honesty in 
these men. He that we have lost — he that has 
left us — might have guided you in this difficult 
path ; but there is not another like him. There 
are plants that only flower once in a whole cen- 
tury, and so with humanity ; great genius only 
visits the earth after long intervals of years. 
"VVhat is it?” broke she in, hurriedly; “thou 
seest something; tell me of it?” With an in- 
tense eagerness she now seemed to drink in 
something that his silent lips revealed ; a sort 
of impatient anxiety urging her, as she said, 
“and then, and then ; yes ! a wild, dreary waste 
without a tree ; but thou knowest not where — 
and a light in an old tower high up — yes ! watch- 
ing for thee ; they have expected thee ; go on. 
Ah ! thou hast arrived there at last ; with what 
honor they receive thee ; they All the hall. No, 
no, do not let him kneel ; thou art right, he is 
an old, old man. That was a mild cheer, and 
see how the tears run down his cheeks ; they 
are, indeed, glad to see thee, then. What now, ” 
cried she, hurriedly ; “ thou wilt not go on, and 
why? tell me, then, why, Gherardi Mio,” cried 
she, in an accent of deep feeling; “is it that 
peril scares thee ? Thou a Prince, and not will- 
ing to pay for thy heritage by danger. Ah ! 
true,” broke she in, despondingly ; “they have 
made thee but a tool, and they would now make 
thee a sacrifice.” A long pause now ensued, 
and she sat with his hand pressed between both 
her own, in silence. At length a slight noise 
startled her; she turned her head, and beheld 
the Pere Massoni standing close beside her. 
She arose at once, and drew the folds of her 
veil more closely across her features. 

“Is your visit over? If so, I w'ould speak 
with you,” said the Pere. 

She bowed her head in assent, and followed 
him from the room. Massoni now led the way 
to the little tower which formed his study ; en- 
tering which, he motioned her to a seat, and 
having locked the door, took a place iii front 
of her. 

“What say you of this young man ?” said he, 
coldly and sternly. “ Will he live ?” 

“ He will live,” said she, in a low, soft voice. 

“For that you pledge yourself ; I mean, your 
shill and craft !” 

“ I have none, holy father — I have but that 
insight into human nature which is open to all ; 
but I can promise, that of his present malady 
he will not die.” 

“How call you his disease ?” 

“ Some would name it atrophy ; some low fe- 
ver; some would say, that an old hereditary 
taint was slowly working its poisonous path 
through a once vigorous frame.” 


“ How mean you by that ; would j'ou imply 
madness in his race ?” 

“There are many disordered in mind whom 
affluence presents as but capricious,” said she, 
with a half supercilious accent. 

“Be frank with me,” said he boldly, “and 
say if you suspect derangement here.” 

“ Holy father,” replied she, in the calm voice 
of one appealing to a mature judgment, “you, 
who read men’s natures, as others do a printed 
page, well know, that he w'ho is animated 
strongly by some single sentiment, which in- 
fuses itself into every thought, and every action, 
pervading each moment of his daily life, so as 
to seem a centre around Avhich all events re 
volve — that such a man, in the world’s esteem, 
is of less sane mind than he who gives to for- 
tune but a passing thought, and makes life a 
mere game of accident. Between these two 
opposing states this young man’s mind now bal- 
ances.” 

“But can not balance long,” muttered the 
Pere to himself, reflecting on her words. “Will 
his intellect bear the struggle ?” asked he hast- 

iiy* 

“Ay, if not overtaxed.” 

“I know 3mur meaning ; you have told him- 
self that he is not equal to the task before him ; 
I heard and saw what passed between you ; I 
know, too, that j'ou have met before in life ; tell 
me, then, Avhere and how.” There w'as a frank, 
intrepid openness in the way he spoke, that 
seemed to say, we must deal freely with each 
other. 

“Of me 3'ou need not to know any thing,” 
said she proudly, as she arose. 

“Not if you had not penetrated a great se- 
cret of mine,” said Massoni sternly ; “you can 
not deny it — j'ou know who this youth is!” 

“I know whom you would make him,” said 
she, in the same haughty tone. 

“What birth and lineage have made him, 
not any will of mine.” 

“ There are miracles too great for even priest- 
craft, holy father — this is one of them. Naj', I 
speak not of his birth, it is of the destiny you 
purpose for him. Is it now, in the midst of the 
glorious outburst of universal freedom, when 
men are but awakening out of the long and 
lethargic dream of slavery, that you would make 
them to return to it ; would you call them to 
welcome back a race whose badge has been op- 
pression ? No, no, your Church is too wise, too 
farsighted for such an error ; the age of mon- 
archies is over ; take counsel from the past, and 
learn that, henceforth, you must side with the 
people.” 

“ So have we ever,” cried the Pere, enthusi- 
astically ; “\es, I maintain and will prove it. 
Stay, you must not part with me so easily. You 
shall tell me who you are. This weak pretense 
of Egyptian origin deceives not me." 

“You shall know nothing of me,” was the 
brief reply. 

“The Sacred Consulta w'ill not accept this 
answer.” 


“THE CHEVALIER.’' 


127 


“They uill get none other, father.” 

“Such acts as yours are forbidden by the 
panon law ; be careful how you push me to de- 
nounce them.” 

‘ ‘ Does the Inquisition still live, then ?” asked 
she, superciliously. 

“Sorcery is a crime, on the word of Holy 
Writ, woman ; and again I say, beware !” 

“This is scarcely grateful, holy father; I 
came here to render you a service.” 

“And you are carrying away a secret, wo- 
man,” said the priest, angrily. “This must 
not be.” 

“ How would it advantage you, I ask,” said 
she, calmly, “were I to reveal the whole story 
of my past life ; it would give you no guarantee 
for the future?” 

“It is for me to think of that. I only say, 
that I must and will know it.” 

“ These are words of passion, holy fothcr, not 
of that wise forethought for which the world 
knows and reveres your name. Farewell.” 

She waved her hand haughtily, and moved 
toward the door ; but it was locked, and resist- 
ed her hand. As she turned to remonstrate, 
Massoni was gone! How, and by what exit, 
she could not guess, since every side of the 
small tower -was covered with books on shelves, 
that rose from the floor to tlie ceiling, and ex- 
cept the one by which she entered, no door to 
be seen. Not a word nor an exclamation es- 
caped her, as she saw herself thus imprisoned ; 
her first care was to examine the windows, which 
readily opened, but whose great height from the 
ground made escape impossible. She again 
tried the lock in various Avays, but without suc- 
cess ; and then recommenced a close scrutiny 
of the sides of the tower, through which she was 
aware there must be some means of exit. So 
cunningly, however, Avas this dcAused, that it 
evaded all her search, and she sat doAvn at 
length baffled and Aveary. 

The bright noon faded aAvay into the mel- 
loAver richness of later day, and the long shad- 
OAA'S of solitary trees or broken columns, stretched 
far across the Campagna, shoAving that the sun 
Avas loAV. While she yet sat silent and Avatchful 
in that lonely toAver, her eyes had ranged over 
the garden beneath, till she knew eA'ery bed 
and patliAvay. She had Avatched the Campagna 
ioo, till her sight ached Avith the Aveary toil ; 
but, except far, far aAvay, long out of reach, no 
succor appeared in view ; and it seemed to her, 
at times, as though there Avas something like 
destiny in this dreary desolation. On that very 
morning, as she droA^e from Albano, the fields 
were filled Avith laborers, and herds of cattle 
roA'ed over the great plains, Avith large troops of 
mounted folloAvers. What had become then of 
these ? The sudden outburst of a hundred 
bells, pealing in almost Avild confusion noAV, 
broke upon the stillness, and seemed to make 
the very Avails vibrate Avith their din. Louder 
and louder this grand chorus swelled out, till 
the sound seemed to rise from earth to heaA'en, 
filling space Avith their solemn music ; and, at 


length, there i^ealed out through these the glo- 
rious cadences of a rich orchestra, coming near- 
er and nearer as she listened. A grand pro- 
cession soon made its appearance, issuing out 
of one of the city gates, and holding its Avay 
across the Campagna. There Avere banners and 
gorgeous canopies, splendidly attired figures 
Avalked beneath, and the smoke of incense rose 
around them in the still calm of a summer’s 
eA^ening. It Avas, then, some festh^al of the 
Church, and to this Avas doubtless OAving the si- 
lence and desertion Avhich reigned over the Cam- 
pagna. 

Witli a haughty and disdainful motion of her 
head, the Egyptian turned atvay from the sight, 
and seated herself Avith her back to the Avindow. 
The grayish tinge of half light that foretells the 
coming night, Avas fast falling, as a slight noise 
startled her. She turned, and beheld two A-en- 
erable monks, Avhose broAvn hoods and frocks 
denoted Franciscans, standing beside her. 

“You are giA’en into our charge, noble lady,” 
said one, AA’ith a tone of deepest respect. “Our 
orders are to giA'e yon a safe conduct.” 

“ Whither to, venerable brother,” said she, 
calmly. 

“To the couA'cnt of St. Ursula, beyond the 
Tiber.” 

“It is the prison of the Inquisition?” said 
she, questioning. 

“ There is no Inquisition ; there are no pris- 
ons,” muttered the other monk. “They Avho 
once met chastisement are Avon back noAv Avith 
loA'e and gentleness.” 

“You Avill be Avell cared for, and Avith kind- 
ness, noble ladA’,” said the other. 

“It is alike to me; I am ready,” said she, 
rising, and preparing to folloAV them. 

In the correspondence to Avhich I haA'e al- 
ready alluded there is a letter to Sir Horace 
Mann, the British Envoy at Florence, in Avhich 
a reference is thus made to this incident. Shall 
I OAvn, that without this historic allusion, I 
Avould scarcely have detained my reader by 
what is, after all, a mere episodical passage in 
my story ? Seymour Avrites : “So far as I can 
learn the Avoman arrested under this chai'ge of 
sorcery is not a British subject at all, as I at 
first informed you, although great reason exists 
to belioA^e her to be a spy in the Jacobin cause. 
All my efibrts to obtain a sight of her haA'C also 
failed ; nor can I CA'cn ascertain Avhere it is they 
have confined her. The common story goes, 
that she has beivitched the young CheA'alier, of 
Avhom they Avant to make a Prince of the House 
of Stuart, and thus entirely spoiled the game 
the Jesuits Avere plotting. Vulgar rumor adds, 
the enormous rcAvards she demands for disen- 
chanting him and so forth ; but more trustivorthy 
accounts suggest that all her especial subtlety 
Avill be needed to effect her OAvn escape. That 
she possesses boundless Avealth, and is of peer- 
less beauty, a miracle of leaiming and accom- 
plishment, you are, of course, prepared to hear. 
Would that I Avere enabled to add my OAvn hum- 
ble testimony on any of these points'. Neither 


128 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


Alberoni nor Casali have seen her, so that 
you may easily imagine how hopeless are my 
chances. 

“It is very hard to believe these tilings in 
our age ; but so they are ; and this morning 
I was told that the ‘Prince,’ pardon me the 
title, has been so much advantaged by her visit, 
that he has thrown off all his old melancholy, 
and goes about gay and happy. Of this I can 
not pronounce, for his Royal Highness has gone 
down to Carafta’s villa at Orvieto, by way of re- 
covering his health completely, and lives there 
in the very strictest seclusion. 

“ The affair has so many aspects, that in some 
one or other of them it has occupied all Rome 
during the last five or six weeks, and we go 
about asking each other will the Prince marry 
Guglia Ridolfi, Caraffa’s niece? Will he ever 
be King of England ? When will they crown 
him? When will they burn the witch? Of 
die latter event, if it show signs of occurring, I 
Am to give due tidings beforehand to our friend 
Horatio, wdio, gout permitting, tvould come out 
from England to see the ceremony. 

“ It is my belief that Mr. Pitt would put this 
female to more profitable use than by making 
a faggot of her, if she had but half what the 
world alleges in craft and acuteness. Priests, 
however, tolerate no rivals, and permit no leg- 
erdemain but their own. Poor creature ! is it 
not just possible that she may be more enthusi- 
ast than cheat ? 

“About the Chevalier himself I have noth- 
ing to add. I saw him on Thursday a-horse- 
back, and I must owm he sat his beast graceful- 
ly and well ; he is of right manly presence, and 
recalls the features of his family, if they be his 
family, most pleasingly. He dismounted near 
Trajan’s column to receive the benediction of 
the Holy Father, who was there blessing oxen, 
it being the festival of St. Martin, who protects 
these animals ; and as he knelt down and rose 
up again, and then saluted the noble guard who 
presented arms, there Avas a dignity and ele- 
*gance in his deportment which struck all ob- 
servers ; nor did I marvel as Atterbury’s ne])hcw 
whispered into my ear — the ‘ Dutchman could 
never have done it like that.’” 

Here the Avriter goes off into a little disserta- 
tion on the “unprofitableness” of mere personal 
adA'antages in times of real trouble, into which 
the reader Avill, I am sure, forgh^e me if I do 
not folIoAV him ; and Avith this I take my leave 
of the correspondence, and return to my tale. 


CHAPTER XXIII. • 

“ INTRIGUE.” 

The life of a man has been aptly compared 
to the course of a stream: now clear — now 
troubled — noAV careering merrily onAvard in joy- 
ous freedom — noAV forcing its turbid course 
amid shoals and rocks ; but in no circumstance 
does the comparison more truthfully apply than in 


those still and motionless intei A'als Avhen, the im- 
pulse offeree spent, the Avaveless pool succeeds lo 
the rapid river. There are feAv men, even among 
the most active and energetic, avIio haA'^e not 
known such periods in life. With some these ai e 
seasons of concentration — times profit ably pass- 
ed in devising plans for the future. Gibers chafe 
under the Avearisome littleness of the hour, and 
long for the days of activity and toil ; and some 
there are to whom these intervals have all the 
charm of a happy dream, and w ho loA'e to indulge 
themselves in a bliss such as in the busy Avorld 
can ncA'er be their fortune to enjoy. 

Among these last, a true disciple of the school 
Avho take refuge in the ideal and the imagina- 
tive, as the sole remedy against the ills of actual 
life, Avas Gerald Fitzgerald. When he arose 
from his sick-bed, it Avas Avith a sort of dreamy, 
indistinct consciousness, that he Avas of high 
rank and station ; one Avhose claims, hoAvever 
in abeyance noAV', must be admitted hereafter ; 
that for the great part he Avas yet to fill, time 
alone Avas Avanting. As to the past, it Avas a 
dream-land Avherein he ventured Avith fear. It 
AA^as in vain he asked himself, hoAv much of it 
Avas true or false? Had this eA'ent really oc- 
curred? Had that man ever liA^ed ? d'he bro- 
ken incidents of a fcA'ered head, mingled wi h 
the terrible realities he had gone through ; and 
there Avere many of his mere fancies that en- 
gaged his credulity more pOAverfully than some 
of the actual eA'ents of his checkered life. 

His convalescence AA^as passed at the Cardi- 
nal’s villa of Orvieto; and if any thing could 
have added to the strange confusion Avhich oj>- 
pressed him, it Avas the curious indistinct im- 
pression his mind preserved of the place itself. 
Tlie gardens, fountains, statues, Avere somehoAv 
all familiar. Hoav had they been so revealed 
to him? A* he strolled through the great 
rooms, objects struck him as Avell knoAvn ; and 
yet, the Pere Massoni had said to him, “Orvi- 
eto Avill interest you ; you haA'e neA'cr been 
there;” and his Eminence, in his invitation, 
suggested the same thought. Day after day 
he pondered over this difficulty, and he con- 
tinually turned over in his mind this question : 
“Is there some inner jficture in my being of all 
that I am to meet aa ith in life ? Has existence 
only to unroll a ‘ tableau,’ every detail of Avhich 
is graven on my heart? Have other men these 
conflicts Avithin their minds ? Is it that by 
some morbid condition of memory I am thus 
tortured ? and must I seek relief by trying to 
forget ?” The struggle thus suggested, render- 
ed him daily more taciturn and thoughtful. He 
Avould sit for hours long Avithout a Avord ; and 
time glided on absolutely as though in a sleep. 

If Gerald’s life AA'as passed in this inactivity, 
the Pere Massoni’s days Avere fully occu])ied. 
From Ireland the tidings had long been of the 
most discouraging kind. The great cause Avhich 
should have been confided to the guidance of 
the Church, and such as the Church could have 
trusted, had been shamefully betrayed into the 
hands of a party deeply imbued Avith all the 


“THE CIIEVALIEK.” 


129 


principles of the Ercncli Revolution ; men taught 
in the infamous doctrines of Voltaire and Vol- 
ney, and who openly professed to hate a churcli 
even more than a monarchy. How the North 
of Ireland had taken the lead in insurrection — 
how the Presbyterians, sworn enemies as they 
were to Catholicism, had enrolled themselves 
in the cause of revolt — liow all the ready, act- 
ive, and zealous leaders were among that class 
and creed, the Priest Carrol had not failed to 
write him word ; nor did it need the priest’s 
suggestive comments to make the clever Jesuit 
aware of all the peril that tliis portended. Was 
it too late to counteract these evils? by what 
means could men be brought back from the 
fatal infatuation of those terrible- doctrines? 
how was the banner of tlie Faith to be brought 
to the van of the movement? were the thouglits 
unceasingly in his mind. The French were 
willing to aid the Irish, so also were the Dutch ; 
but the intervention would only damage the 
cause the Pm-e cared for. Nor did he dare to 
confide these doubts to the Cardinal and ask 
his counsel on them, since, to his Eminence he 
had continually represented the case of Ireland 
in a totally different light. He had taught him 
to believe the people all jealous for the Faith, 
cruelly oppressed by England, hating the dy- 
nasty that ruled them, and eagerly watching for 
the return of the Stuarts, if haply there yet lived 
one to renew the traditions of that illustrious 
house. By dint of instances, and no small per- 
suasive power, he at last had so far succeeded 
as to enlist the sympathies of his Eminence in 
the youth personally, and was now plotting by 
what means he could consummate that interest 
by a marriage between Gerald and the beautiful 
Guglia Ridolfi. 

This was a project which, if often indis- 
tinctly hinted at between them, had never yet 
been seriously treated, and Massoni well knew 
that with Caraffa success was a mere accident, 
and that what he would reject one day with 
scorn he would accept the next Avith eagerness 
and joy. Besides, the gloomy tidings he con- 
stantly received from Ireland indisposed the 
Pere to incur any needless hazards. If the 
CheA^alier was not destined to play a great part 
in life, the Cardinal w-ould never forgive an al- 
liance that conferred neither Avealth nor station. 
The barren honor of calling a prince of the 
House of Stuart his nephoAV Avould ill requite 
him for maintaining a mere pensioner and a de- 
pendent. Against these considerations there 
Avas the calculation hoAvfar the cause of Fitzger- 
ald might profit by the aid such a man as Caraffa 
could contribute, Avhen once pledged to success 
by every thing personally near and dear to him- 
self. Might not the great churchman, then, be 
led to make the cause the main object of all his 
Avishes ? 

The Cardinal was one of those men, and they 
are large enough to form a class, Avho imagine 
that they OAve every success they obtain in life, 
in some Avay or other, to their own admirable 
skill and forethought; their egotism blinding 


them against all the aid the suggestions of 
others have afforded, they arriA’e at a self-reli- 
ance Avhich is actually inarA’clous. To turn to 
good account this peculiarity of disposition, 
Massoni noAV addressed himself zealously and 
actively. lie well kncAV that if the Cardinal 
only fancied that the alliance of his niece Avith 
the Chevalier AA'as a scheme devised by himself 
• — one of Avhich none but a man of his deep sub- 
tlety and sagacity could CA-er have thought — 
the plot Avould have an irresistible attraction for 
him. The Avily Pere meditated long over this 
plan, and, at last, hit upon an expedient that 
seemed hopeful. Among the many agents 
Avhom he employed over Europe, Avas one call- 
ing himself the Count Della Rocca, a felloAV of 
infinite craft and effrontery, and Avho, though 
of the very humblest origin and most question- 
able morals, had actually gained a footing 
among the A’ery highest and most exclusive of 
the French royalists. He had been frequently 
intrusted Avith confidential messages betAveen 
the Courts of France and Spain, and acquired 
a sort of courtier-like air and breeding, Avhich 
lost nothing by any diffidence or modesty on 
his ])art. 

Massoni’s plan Avas to pretend to the Cardinal 
that Della Rocca had been sent out to Rome 
by the Count D’Artois, Avith the decoration of 
St. Louis for the Chevalier, and a secret mission 
to sound the young Stuart Prince, as to his 
Avillingness to ally himself Avith the House of 
Bourbon, by marriage. For such a pretended 
mission the Count Avas Avell suited ; sufficiently 
acquainted Avith the habits of great people to 
represent their conversation correctly, and Avell 
A’^ersed in that half ambiguous tone, affected by 
diplomatists of inferior grade, he Avas admirably 
calculated to play the part assigned him. 

To giA-e a greater credence to the mission, it 
Avas necessary that the Cardinal York should be 
also included in the deception ; but nothing Avas 
CA-er easier than to make a dupe of his Royal 
Highness. A number of Avell-turned compli- 
ments from his dear cousins of “France,” soqie 
little allusions to the “long ago” at St. Ger- 
mains, Avhen the exiled Stuarts Ih-ed there, and 
a note, cleA'erly imitated, of the Count D’Ar- 
tois’ hand, Avere quite enough to Avin the old 
man’s confidence. The next step Avas to com- 
municate Della Rocca’s arriA-al to the Cardinal 
Carafta, and this Massoni did with all due se- 
crecy, intimating that the event Avas one upon 
Avdiich he desired to take the pleasure of his 
Eminence. 

Partly from offended pride, on not being him- 
self sought for by the eiiA'oy, and partly to dis- 
guise from Massoni the jealousy he ahvays felt 
on the score of Cardinal York’s superior rank, 
Caraffa protested that the tidings had no inter- 
est for him Avhatever ; that any sentiments he 
entertained for the young Chevalier Avere sim- 
ply such as a sincere pity suggested ; that lie 
never heard of a cause so utterly hopeless ; that 
even if powerful allies Averc Avilling and ready 
to suitaia liis pretensions, the young man’s oaa'u 


130 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


defects of character would defeat their views ; 
that, from all he could hear — for of himself he 
OAvned to know nothing — Gerald was the last 
man in Europe to lead an enterprise, Avhich re- 
quired great daring and continual resources, 
and, in fact, none could be his partisan save 
from a sense of deep compassion. 

The elaborate pains he took to impress all 
this upon Massoni convinced the Fere that it 
was not the real sentiment of his Eminence, 
and he was not much surprised at a hasty 
summons to the Cardinal’s palace on the even- 
ing of the day he had first communicated the 
ncAvs. 

“The first mine has sj)rung!” muttered 
Massoni, as he read the order and prepared to 
obey it. 

The Cardinal was in his study when the Pere 
arrived, and continued to pace up and down the 
room, briefly addressing a few words as Massoni 
entered and saluted him. 

“The old Cardinal Monga had a saying, 
that if some work were not found out to employ 
the Jesuits, they were certain to set all Europe 
in a flame. Was there not some truth in the 
remark, Pere Massoni? Answer me frankly 
and fairly, for you know the body well !” Such 
was the speech by which he addressed him. 

“Had his Eminence reckoned the times in 
which Jesuit zeal and wisdom had rescued the 
world from peril, it would have been a fitter 
theme for his wisdom.” 

“It is not to be denied that they are med- 
dlers, sir,” said the Cardinal, haughtily. 

“ So are the sailors in a storm-tossed vessel. 
The good Samaritan troubled himself with 
what, others might have said, had no concern 
for him.” 

“I Avill not discuss it,” said his Eminence, ab- 
ruptly. “ The world has formed its own vulgar 
estimate of your order, and I, at least, agree 
Avith the majority.” He paused for a second or 
tAVO, and then, Avith a tone of some irritation, 
said, “ What is this story Rome is full of, about 
some Egyptian Avoman, or a Greek, arrested 
and confined by a AA-arrant of the Holy office ; 
they have mingled your name Avith it, some- 
how ?” 

“A grave charge, your Eminence; Satanic 
possession and witchcraft — ” 

“Massoni,” broke in Caraffii, with a mali- 
cious tAvinkle of his dark eye, “remember, I 
beseech you, that Ave are alone. What do you 
mean, then, by Avitchcraft?” 

“Were I to say to your Eminence that, aft- 
er a certain intervicAV with you, I had come 
aAvay, assuring myself that other sentiments 
Avere in your heart than those you had avoAved 
to me ; that you had but half rcA-ealed this, to- 
tally ignored that, affected credulity here, dis- 
belief there, my subtlety, whether right or 
Avrong, would resoHe itself into a mere com- 
mon gift — the practiced habit of one skilled to 
decipher motiA'es; but if, AA'hile in your pres- 
ence, standing as I noAV do here, I could, Avith 
an effort of argument or abstraction, open your 


Avhole heart before me, and read there as in a 
book; and Avhile doing this, ])lace you in cii- 
cumstances Avhere your most secret emotions 
must find vent, so that not a corner nor a nook 
of your nature should be strange to me, by Avhat 
name Avould you call such an influence?” 

“ What you describe now has never existed, 
Massoni. Tricksters and mountebanks haA^e 
pi-etended to such poAver in every age, but they 
have had no other dupes than the unlettered 
multitude.” 

“ IIoAv say you, then, if I be a believer here ? 
What say you, if I have tested this Avoman’s 
j'OAver, and proved it? What say you, if all she 
has ])redicted has uniformly come to pass ; not 
a day, nor a date, nor an hour mistaken ! I 
Avill give an instance. Of Della Rocca’s mis- 
sion at)d its objects here, I had not the very 
faintest anticipation. That the exiled family 
of France cherished hope enough to speculate 
on some remote future, I did not dream of sus- 
pecting ; and yet, through her foretel.ing, I 
learned the day he Avould arrive at Rome, the 
A'ery hotel he Avould put up at, the steps he 
Avould adopt to obtain an audience of the Cffiev'- 
alier, the attempts he Avould make to keep his 
mission a secret fiom me; nay, to the A’^ery 
dress in which he Avould present himself, I 
kncAV, and was prepared for all.” 

“All this might be concerted; Avliat m.ore 
easy than to plan any circumstance you liaA'e 
detailed, and by imposing on your credulity se- 
cure your co-operation?” 

“Let me finish, sir. I asked what success 
Avould attend his plan, and learned that destiny 
had yet left this doubtful — that all Avas yet de- 
pendent on the Avill of one Avhose mind .aa’us 
still unresolved. I pressed eagerly to learn his 
name, she refused to tell me, openly avoAving 
that she Avould tliAvart his influence, if in her 
poAver. I grcAv angry and CA'en scoffed at her 
pretended powers, declaring, as you haA^e just 
suggested, that all she had told me might be 
nothing beyond a Avxll-arranged scheme. ‘For 
once, then, you shall haA'e a proof,’ said she, 

‘ and nCA’er shall it be repeated ; fold that sheet 
of paper there, as a letter, and seal it carefully 
and Avell. The name I haA^e alluded to is 
Avritten Avithin,’ said she. I started, for the 
paper contained no Avriting — not a Avord, not a 
syllable — I had scanned it carefully ere I fold- 
ed it. Of this I can pledge my solemn and 
sacred Avord.” 

“Well, when you broke the seal?” burst in 
the Cardinal. 

“I have not yet done so,” said the Pere, 
calmly, “there is the letter, just as I folded 
and sealed it : from that moment to this it has 
never quitted my possession. It may be, that, 
as you Avould suspect, even this might be sleight 
of hand. It may be, sir, that the paper con- 
tains no Avriting.” 

“Let us see,” cried the Cardinal, taking the 
letter and breaking it open. “ Madonna !” ex- 
claimed he, suddenly. “Look here;” and his 
finger then trembling pointed to the Avord, 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


“Caraffa,” traced in small letters and with a 
very faint ink, in the middle of the page. 

“ And to this you swear, on your soul’s safe- 
ty,” cried CarafFa, eagerly. 

He bent forward till his lips touched the large 
golden cross which, as a pectoral, the Cardinal 
wore, and muttered “By this emblem, I swear 
it.” 

“Such influence is demoniacal — none can 
doubt it ; who is this woman, and whence came 
she? 

“ So much of her story as I know is briefly 
told,” said Massoni, who related all that he had 
heard of the Egyptian, concluding with the steps 
by which he had her arrested and confined in 
the convent of St. Maria Maggiore, on the 
Tiber. 

“ There was an age when such a w'oman had 
been sent to the stake,” said CarafFa, fiercely. 
“Is it a wiser policy that pardons her?” 

“Yes; if by her means a good end can be 
served,” interrupted the Pere ; “if, through 
what she can reveal, errors may be avoided, 
perils averted, and successes gained ; if, in 
short, Satan can be used as slave, not master.” 

“And wherefore should she be opposed to 
me V broke in CarafFa, whose thoughts reverted 
to what concerned himself, personally. 

“ As a true and faithful priest, as an honored 
Prince of the Church, you must be her enemy,” 
said the Pere ; and, though the words were 
spoken in all seeming sincerity, the Cardinal’s 
dark eyes scanned the speaker’s face keenly and 
severely. As if failing, however, to detect any 
equivocation in his manner, CarafFa addressed 
himself to another course of thought and said, 
“Have you questioned her, then, as to this 
youag man’s chances ?” 

“ She will not speak of them,” was the abrupt 
reply. 

“ Have they met?” 

“Once, and only once ; and of the meeting 
his memory preserves no trace whatever, since 
it was during his fever, and when his mind was 
wandering and incoherent.” 

“Could I see her, without being known; 
could I speak with her myself?” 

Massoni shook his head doubtingly, “ No dis- 
guise would avail against her craft.” 

Carafta pondered long over his thoughts, 
and at last said, “I have a strong desire to see 
her, even though I should not speak to her. 
What say you, Massoni ?” 

“It shall be as pleases your Eminence,” was 
the meek answer. 

“ So much I know, sir ; but it is your counsel 
that I am now asking, what would you advise ?” 

“ So far as I can guess,” answered the Pere, 
cautiously, “it is her marvelous gift to exert 
influence over those with whom she comes in 
contact — a direct palpable sway. Even I, cold, 
impassive, as I am, unused to feel, and long 
beyond the reach of such fascination — even I 
have known what it is to confront a nature thus 
strangely endowed.” 

“These are mere fancies, Massoni.” 


i31 

“Fancies that have the force of convictions. 
For my own part, depositary as I am of much 
that the world need not, should not, know, I 
would not willingly expose my heart to one 
like her.” 

“Were it even as you say, IMassoni, of what 
could the knowledge avail her? Betliink yo.i 
for a moment of what strange mysteries of tlic 
human heart every village curate is the keeper; 
how he has probed recesses, dived into secret 
clefts, of which, till revealed by strict search, 
the very possessor knew not the existence ; and 
yet, how valueless, how inert, how inoperative 
in the great game of life, does not this knowl- 
edge prove. If this were power, the men who 
possessed it would sway the universe.” 

“And so they might,” burst in Massoni, “if 
they would adapt to the great eventk of life tlic 
knowledge which they now dissipate in the small 
circle of family existence. If they would apply 
to statecraft the same springs by which they 
now awaken jealousies, kindle passions, lull just 
suspicions, and excite distrusts ! With powder 
enough to blow up a fortress, they are contented 
to spend it in fireworks ! The order of which 
I am an unworthy member alone conceived a 
different estimate of the duty.” 

“The world gives credit to your zeal,” said 
the Cardinal, slyly. 

“The world is an ungrateful taskmaster. It 
would have its work done, and be free to dis- 
parage those who have labored for it.” 

A certain tone of defiance in this speech left 
an awkward pause for several minutes. At 
last CarafFa said, carelessly, “Of what were we 
speaking awhile ago? Let us return to it.” 

“It was of tha Count Della Rocca, and his 
mission, your Eminence.” 

“True. You said that he wished to see the 
Chevalier, to present his letters. There can bo 
no objection to that. The road to Orvieto is an 
excellent one, and my poor house there is quite 
capable of affording hospitality for even a visitor 
so distinguished.” With all his efforts to ap- 
pear tranquil, the Cardinal spoke in a broken, 
abrupt way, that betrayed a mind very ill at ease. 

“I am not aware, Massoni,” resumed he, 
“that the affair concerns me-, nor is there oc- 
casion to consult me upon it.” This address 
provoked no reply from the Pere, who con- 
tinued patiently to scan the speaker, and mark 
the agitation that more and more disturbed 
him. 

“I conclude, of course,” said the Cardinal 
again, “ that the Chevalier’s health is so firmly 
re-established this interview can not be hurtful 
to him; that he is fully equal to discuss ques- 
tions touching his gravest interests. You who 
hear frequently from him can give me assurance 
on this point.” 

“ I am in almost daily correspondence — ” 

“I know it,” broke in CarafFa. 

“I am in almost daily correspondence with 
the Chevalier, and can answer for it, that he is 
in the enjoyment of perfect health and spirits.” 

“They who speculated on his being inferior 


132 


GEEALD FITZGERALD, 


to Ills destiny wid perhaps feel disappointed !” 
said Caraffa, in a low searching accent. 

‘ They acknowledge as much already, your 
Eminence. In the very last dispatches Sir 
Iloraeg Mann sent home, there is a gloomy 
prediction of what trouble a youtli so gifted and 
so ambitious may one cay occasion them in 
England.” 

“Your friend the Marchesa Balbi, then, still 
wields her intluenee at the Britisli legation,” 
said CaratFa, smiling cunningly; “or you had 
never known these sentiments of the minister?” 

“Your Eminence reads all secrets,” was the 
submissive reply, as the Bere bowed his head. 

“Has she also told you what they think of 
the youth in England?” 

“No farther than that there is a great anxie- 
ty to see him, and assure themselves that he re- 
sembles the House of Stuart.” 

“ Of that there is no doubt,” broke in Caraffa ; 
“ there is not a look, a gesture, a trait of man- 
ner, or a tone of the voice, he has not inherited.” 

“These may seem trifles in the days of exile 
and adversity, but they are title-deeds fortune 
never fails to adduce when better times come 
round.” 

“And do you really still believe in such, 
Massoni? Tell me, in the .sincerity of man to 
man, without disguise, and, if you can, without 
prejudice — do you continue to cherish hopes of 
this youth’s fortune?” 

“ I have never doubted cf them for a moment, 
sir;” said the Bere confidently. “ So long as 
I saw him Aveak and broken, witli weary looks 
and jaded spirits, I felt the time to be distant ; 
but when I beheld him in the full v'igor of his 
manly strength, I knew that his hour v'as ap- 
proaching ; it needed but the call — the man Avas 
ready.” 

“Ah! Massoni, if I had thought so ; if I but 
thought so ;” burst out the Cardinal as he lean- 
ed his head on his hand, and lapsed into deejA 
reflection. 

The Avily Bere ncA^er ventured to break in 
upon a course of thought, every motive of Avhich 
contributed to his own secret purpose. He 
Avatched him, therefore, closely, but in silence. 
At last, Caraffa, lifting up his head, said, “I 
hav'e been thinking over this mission of Della 
Rocca, Massoni, and it Avere perhaps as Avell — 
at least it will look kindly, Avere I to go OA’er to 
Orvieto myself, and speak Avith the Chevalier 
before he receives him. Detain the Count, 
therefore, till you liear from me — I shall start 
in the morning.” 

The Bere bowed, and after a fcAv moments 
AvithdrcAV. / 


CHABTER XXIY. 

“the garden at oraheto.” 

Soon after daybreak on the following morn- 
ing, the Cardinal’s courier arrived at Orvieto 
with tidings that his Eminence might be ex- 


pected on that same evening. It was a rare 
event, indeed, Avhich honored the villa Avith a 
visit from its princely owner ; and great Avas the 
bustle and stir of preparation to receiv'e him. 
The same activity prcA^ailed Avithin door and 
Avithout. Troops of men Avere employed in the 
gardens, on the terraces, and the AUAi'ious pleas- 
ure-grounds ; Avhile splendid suites of rooms, 
never opened but on such great occasions, Avere 
noAV speedily got in readiness and order. 

Gerald Avandered about amid this exciting 
turmoil, puzzled and confused. Hoav Avas it 
that he fancied he had once seen something of 
the very same sort, exactly in the self-same 
place ? Was this, then, another rush of that 
imagination AA'hich so persisted in tormenting 
him, making life a mere circle of the same 
CA’ents ? As he moved from place to place, the 
conviction grcAv only stronger and stronger : thi? 
seemed the v'ery statue he had helped to replace 
on its pedestal — here the A'ery fountain he had 
cleared from AA^eeds and fallen leaA^es ; the Aoaa'^ 
ers he had grpuped in certain beds ; the Avalks 
he had trimly raked ; the rustic seats he had 
disposed beneath shady trees ; all rose to hi? 
mind and distracted him by the difficulty of ex- 
plaining them. As he Avalked up the great 
marble stairs and entered the spacious hall cf 
audience, a Avhole scene of the past seemed to 
fill the .space. The lovely girl, a mere child a? 
she Avas, Avith golden hair and deep blue eyes, 
rose again before his memory, and his heart 
sunk as he bethought him that the Avhole A'isicn 
must liaA'e had no reality. 

The rapid tramp of horses’ feet suddenly led 
him to the AvindoAA*, and he noAV saAv the outri- 
ders, as tliey dashed up at speed, followed quick- 
ly after by three traveling carriages, each drawn 
by six horses, and escorted by mounted dragoons. 
Gerald did not Avait to see his Eminence de- 
scend, but hastened to his room to dress, and 
compose his thoughts for the approaching inter- 
vieAv. 

The Chevalier had groAvn to be someAvhat 
A'ain of his personal appearance. It was a Stu- 
art trait, and sat not ungracefully upon him ; 
and he now costumed himself Avith more than 
ordinary care. His dress was of a dark maroon 
velvet, over which he wore a scarf of his OAvn 
tartan ; the collar and decoration presented by 
the Cardinal York ornamenting the front of the 
dress, as Avell as the splendidly embossed dag- 
ger Avhich once had graced the belt of the Brince 
Charles Edward. Though his toilet occupied 
him a considerable time, no summons came from 
his Eminence, either to announce his arrival or 
request a meeting ; and Gerald, half pained by 
the neglect, and half puzzled, lest the fault might 
possibly be ascribed to some defect of obseiw- 
ances on his OAvn part, at length took his hat 
and left the house for a stroll through the gar- 
dens. 

Ah he wandered along listlessly, he at last 
gained a little grassy eminence, from which a 
wide view extended over a vast olive plain, trav- 
ersed by a tiny stream. It Avas the very Avood 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


133 


through which, years l^efore, lie had journeyed 
when he had lied from the villa to seek his for- 
tune. Some indistinct, Hitting thoughts of the 
event, the zigzag path along the river, the far- 
away mountains of the Maremma, tverc yet puz- 
zling him, when he heard a light step on the 
gravel walk near. He turned, and saw a young 
girl coming toward hirn, smiling, and with an 
extended hand. One glance showed him that 
she was singularly beautiful, and of a demeanor 
that announced high station. 

“Which of us is to say, ‘welcome here,’ 
Chevalier ? at all events, let one of us have the 
courage to speak it. I am your guest, or your 
host, whichever it please you best.” 

“The Contessa Ridolfi,” said Gerald, as he 
kissed her hand respectfully. 

“I perceive,” said she, laughing, “you have 
heard of my boldness, and guess my name at 
once; but, remember, that if I had waited to 
be presented to you by my uncle, I should have 
been debarred from thus clearing all formality 
at a bound, and asking you, as I now do, to 
imagine me one you have known long and well.” 

“ I am unable to say whether the honor you 
confer on me, or the happiness, be greater,” said 
Gerald, warmly. 

“Let it be the happiness, since the honor 
must surely come from your side,” said she, in 
the same light, half careless tone. “ Give me 
your arm, and guide me through these gardens; 
you know them well, I presume.” 

“I have been your guest these four months 
and more, Contessa,” said he, bowing. 

“ So that this poor villa of ours may have its 
place in history, and men remember it as the 
spot where the young Trince sojourned. Nay, 
do not blush, Chevalier, or I shall think that 
the shame is for my boldness. When you know 
me better you will learn that I am one so train- 
ed to the license of free speech that none are 
offended at my frankness.” 

“You shall never hear me complain of it,” 
said Gerald, quickly. 

“Come, then, and tell me freely, has this 
solitude grown intolerable ; is your i)atience 
Avell-nigh worn out with those interminable de- 
lays of what are called ‘your friends?’ ” 

“I know not what you allude to. I came 
here to recover after a long illness, weak and 
exhausted. My fever had left me so low in en- 
ergy, that I only asked rest and quietness : I 
found both at the villa. The calm monotony 
that might have wearied another, soothed and 
comforted me. Of what was real in my past 
life — what mere dreamland — I never could suc- 
ceed in defining. If at one moment I seemed 
to any one’s eyes of princely blood and station, 
at the next I could not but see myself a mere 
adventurer, without friends, family, or home. 
I Avould have given the world for one kind friend 
to steady the wavering fabric of my mind, to 
bring back its wandering fancies, and tell me 
when my reason was aright.” 

“Will you take me for such a friend?” said 
Guglia, in a soft, low voice. 


“Oh, do not ask me, if you mean it not in 
serious earnest,” broke he in, rapidly. “ I can 
bear up against the unbroken gloom of my fu- 
ture ; 1 could not endure the changeful light of 
a delusive hope.” 

“But it need not bo such. It is for you to 
decide whether you will accept of such a coun- 
selor. First of all,” added she, hastily, and 
ere leaving him time to reply, “I am more 
deeply versed in your interests than you are 
perhaps aware. Intrusted by my uncle, the 
Cardinal, to deal with questions not usually 
committed to a young girl’s hands, I have seen 
most parts of the correspondence whicli concerns 
you ; nay, more, I can and will show you copies 
of it. You shall see for yourself what they have 
never yet left you to judge, whether it is for your 
own interest to await an eventuality that may 
never come, or boldly try to create the crisis oth- 
ers would bid you wait for; or lastly, there is 
another part to take, the boldest, perhaps, of all.” 

“And what may that be?” broke in Gerald, 
with eagerness, for his interest was now most 
warmly engaged. 

“ This must be for another time,” said she, 
quickly ; “here comes his Eminence to meet us.” 

And as she spoke, the Cardinal came forward, 
and with a mingled affection and respect em- 
braced Gerald and kissed him on both cheeks. 



CHAPTER XXV. ^ 

now THE TIME PASSED AT OliVIETO. 

Fairest reader, has it ever been your for- 
tune, or has it entered into your experiences, 
even to hear of any one who found a quiet, 
monotonous life in some lonely, unvisited spot, 
a perfect paradise ? — to recognize fresh charms 
each day in the scenery — to attach to every in- 
animate object that amount of interest that 
made them part and parcel of ourselves, and to 
feel — great triumph of all — how barren and un- 
profitable all our life hitherto had been, and 
how -we had now, for the first time, known ivhat 
it was to be happy ? If, I say, you have tasted 
the fruit of this knowledge, you have no need 
to be told by me why the beautiful Guglia Ri- 
dolfi lingered at Orvieto. 

It was, there is no denying, a very princely 
residence — a true villa palace, as the Italians 
only understand how to build, and the grounds 
were on a scale of extent that suited the man- 
sion. Ornamental terraces and gardens on 
every side, with tasteful alleys of trellised vines 
to give noon-day shade, and farther oft’ again a 
dense pine forest, traversed by long alleys of 
grass, Avhich even in the heat of summer were 
cool and shaded. These narrow roads, barely 
wide enough for two horsemen abreast, crossed 
and reerossed in the dark forest, and were a per- 
fect type of sameness since they ever led be- 
tween walls of the same dusky foliage, with 
scanty glimpses of a blue sky through the arch- 
ed branches over head. 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


134 

If GugHa rode there for hours long -with Ger- 
ald ; if they strayed — often silently — not even 
a foot-fall heard on the smooth turf, you, per- 
haps, know why ; and if you do not, how am I, 
unskilled in such descriptions, to make you 
wiser? Well, it was even as you suspect: the 
petted child of fortune — the lovely niece of the 
great Cardinal — the beautiful Guglia, whose 
hand was the greatest prize of Rome, had con- 
ceived such an interest in Gerald, his fortunes, 
and his fate, that she could not leave Orvieto. 

In vain came pressing invitations from Al- 
bano and Terni, where she had ))romised to pass 
part of her autumn. In vain the lively descrip- 
tions of friends full of all the delights of Cas- 
tel-a-Mare or Sorrento, the story of festivities 
and pleasures seemed poor and even vulgar with 
the life she led. Talk of illusions as you will, 
that of being in love is the only one that moulds 
the nature or elevates the heart ! Out of its 
promptings come the heroism of the least ven- 
turesome or the poetry of the least romantic ! 
Insensibly stealing into the affections of an- 
other, we have to descend into our own hearts 
for the secrets that win success ; and how reso- 
lutely we combat all that is mean or unworthy 
in our nature, simply that we may offer a more 
pure sacrifice on the altar that we kneel to ! 

And there and thus she lived, the flattered 
beauty — the young girl, to Avhom an atmosphere 
of homage and admiration seemed indispensable 
— whose presence was courted in the society of 
the great world, and whose very caprices had 
grown to become fashions. There she lived a 
sort of strange, half-real existence, each day so 
like another that time had no measure how it 
passed. 

The library of the villa supplied them with 
ample material to study the history of the 
Stuarts; and in these pursuits they passed the 
mornings, carefully noting down the strange 
eventualities which determined their fate, and 
canvassing together in talk the traits which so 
often had involved them in misfortune. Ger- 
ald, now restored to full health, was a perfect 
type of the illustrious race he sprung from ; and 
not only was the resemblance in face and figure, 
but all the mannerisms of Charles Edward were 
reproduced in the son. The same easy, gentle, 
yielding disposition, dashed by impulses of the 
wildest daring, and darkened occasionally by 
moods of obstinacy; miserable under the thought 
of having offended, and almost more Avretched 
when the notion of being forgiven imparted a 
sense of his own inferiority, he was one of those 
men whose minds are so many sided that they 
seem to have no fixed character. Even now', 
though aw'akened to the thought of the great 
destiny that might one day befiUl him — assured 
as he felt of his birth and lineage — there w'ere 
interv'als in which no sense of ambition stirred 
him, and he had wdllingly accepted the humblest 
lot in life should it only promise peace and 
tranquillity. 

Strangely enough it was by these vacillations 
and changes of temperament that Guglia had 


attached herself so decisively to his fortunes. 
The A'ery want which she supplied to his nature 
made the tie between them. The theory in her 
own heart Avas, that when called on for effort — 
AvliencA'cr the occasion should demand the great 
])ersonal qualities of courage and daring — Ger- 
ald Avould be pre-eminently distinguished, ami 
shoAv himself to the Avorld a true Stuart. 

While thus they liA'cd this life of hajtpiness, 
the Pere INIassoni Avas actively engaged in ma- 
turing ])lans for the future. Eor a considerable 
time back he had been watching the condition 
of li-eland Avith an intense feeling of anxiety. 
So far from the resistance to England having 
assumed the character of a struggle in favor of 
Catholicism, it had groAvn more and more to 
resemble the great convulsion in France which 
promised to ingulf all religions and all creeds. 
Though in a measure prepared for this in the 
beginning of the conflict, Massoni steadfastly 
trusted that the influence of the priests AA’Ould 
as certainly bring the people back to the stand- 
ards of the church, and that eventually the con- 
test Avould be purely betAveen Rome and the 
Reformation. His last noAvs from Ireland griev- 
ously damped the ardor of such hopes. The 
Presbyteriaus of the North — men called ene- 
mies of the “Church” — Avere noAv the m.ost 
trusted leaders of the movement ; and hoAv AA'as 
he to expect that such men as these Avould ac- 
cept a Stuart for their King? 

For days, and even Aveeks did the crafty Ph'e 
ponder over this difficult problem, and try to 
soh'e it in Avays the most opposite. Why might 
not these Northerns, Avho must ahvays be a mere 
minority, be employed at the outset of the strug- 
gle, and then, as the rebellion declared itself, be 
abandoned and throAvn over? Why not make 
them the forlorn hope o*f the campaign, and so 
get rid of them entirely? Why should not 
the Chevalier boldly try his personal influence 
among them — promise future reAvards and fa- 
A'ors — ay, even more still ? Why might he not 
adroitly have it hinted that he AA'as, at heart, 
less a Romanist than Avas generally believed — 
that French opinions had taken a deep root in 
his nature, and the early teachings of Miraber.u 
borne their true fruit? There AA'as much in 
Gerald’s training and habit of mind Avhich Avould 
favor this supposition, could he but be induced 
to play the game as he AA'as directed. There 
Avas among the Stuart papers in Cardinal York’s 
keeping a curious memorandum of a project 
once entertained by the Pretender Avith respect 
to Charles EdAvard. It Avas a scheme to marry 
him to a natural daughter of Sir Robert Wal- 
pole, and tlius conciliate the favor and even the 
support of that minister — the strongest friend 
and ally of the Hanoverian cause. The Jesuit 
father had seen and read this remarkable paper, 
and deemed it a conception of the finest and 
most adroit diplomacy. It had even stimulated 
his OAvn ardor to rival it in acuteness ; to im- 
pose Gerald upon the Presbyterian party, as one 
covertly cherishing vicAvs similar to their OAvn ; 
to make them, a minority as they Avere, imagine 


“Tin: CHEVALIER.” 


135 


that the future destinies of the country were in I 
their keeping; to urge them on, in fact, to the 
van of the battle, that so they might stand be- 
tween two fires, was his great conception, tlie 
only difficulty to which was how to prepare the 
young Chevalier for tlie part he was to play, 
and reconcile him to its duplicity ! 

To this end he addressed himself zealously and 
vigorously, feeding Gerald’s mind with ideas of 
the grandeur of his house, the princely inherit- 
ance that they had possessed, and their high rank 
in Europe. All that could contribute to stimu- 
late the youth’s ardor, and gratify his pride of 
birth, Avas studiously provided. Day by day he 
advanced stealthily upon the road, gradually en- 
hancing Gerald’s OAvn standard to himself, and 
giving him, by a sort of fictitious occupation, an 
amount of importance in his own eyes. Mas- 
soni maintained a wide correspondence through- 
out Europe ; there was not a petty court where 
he had not some trusted agent. To impart to 
this correspondence a peculiar tone and color- 
ing Avas easy enough. At a signal from him 
the hint Avas sure to be adopted ; and now as 
letters poured in from Spain, and Portugal, and 
Naples, and Vienna, they all bore upon the one 
theme, and seemed filled with but one thouglit 
— that of the young Stuart and his fortunes. 
All these Avere duly foi’AA'arded by Massoni to 
Gerald by special couriers, who arrived with a 
haste and speed that seemed to imply the last 
importance. With an ingenuity all liis OAvn, the 
Pere invested this correspondence Avith all the 
characteristics of a vast political machinery, and 
by calling upon Gerald’s personal intervention, 
he elevated the young man to imagine himself 
the centre of a great enterprise. 

Well aided and seconded as he AA^as by Guglia 
Ridolfi, to Avhom also filiis labor Avas a delight- 
ful occupation, the day was often too short for 
the amount of business before them ; and in- 
stead of the long rides in the pine forest, or 
strolling rambles through the garden, a brisk 
gallop before dinner, taken with all the zest of 
a holiday, was often the only recreation they 
permitted tliemselves. There AA'as a fascination 
in this existence that made all their previous 
life, happy as it had been, seem tame and Avorth- 
less in comparison. If real poAver have an ir- 
resistible charm for those Avho have once enjoy- 
ed its prerogatiA'es, even the semblance and 
panoply of it have a marvelous fascination. 

That “egoisme a-deux,” as a witty French 
Avriter has called love, Avas also heightened in 
its attraction by the notion of an influence and 
sAA'-ay Avielded in concert. As one of the invari- 
able results of the great passion is to eleA^ate 
people to themselves, so did this seeming im- 
portance they thus acquired minister to their 
love for each other. In the air-built castles of 
their mind one Avas a royal palace, surrounded 
with all the pomp and splendor of majesty ; Avho 
shall say that here Avas not a theme for a “thou- 
sand-and-one nights” of imagination ? 

Must Ave make the ungraceful confession that 
Gerald Avas not very much in Ioa^c ! though he 


felt that the life he Avas leading was a A’’cry de- 
lightful one. Guglia possessed great — the very 
greatest — attractions. She Avas very beautiful ; 
her figure the perfection of grace and symme- 
try ; her carriage, voice, and air all that the 
most fastidious could Avish for. She Avas emi- 
nently gifted in many ways, and Avith an appre- 
hension of astonishing quickness; and yet, 
somehoAV, though he liked and admired her, 
Avas alAvays happy in her society, and charmed 
by her companionship, she never made the sub- 
ject of his solitary musings as he strolled by 
himself; she Avas not the theme of the sonnets 
that fell half unconsciously from his lijis as he 
rambled alone in the ])ine Avood. Was the 
Avant then in Iter to insjiire a deeper pastion, or 
had the holiest spot in his heart been already 
occupied, or Avas it that some ideal conception 
had made all reality unequal and infeiiur? 
Who is to knoAv this? We smile at the sim- 
plicity of those poor savages, avIio having carved 
out their OAvn deity, fashioned, and shaped, and 
clothed, then fall doAvn before their OAvn handi- 
Avork in an abject dcA'otion and Avorship. We 
can not reconcile to ourselves the mental ])roc- 
ess by Avhich this self-deception is practiced, 
and yet it is happening in another form, and 
CA'ery day too, under our OAvn eyes. The most 
violent passions are very often the result of a 
certain suggestiA^eness in an object much ad- 
mired ; the qualities Avhich aAvaken in ourselves 
nobler sentiments, higher ambitions, and more 
delightful dreams of a future soon attach us to 
the passion, and unconsciously Ave create an 
image of Avhich the living type is but a skeleton. 
Perhaps it Avas the tOAvering ambition of Gug- 
lia’s mind that impaired, to a great degree, the 
Avomanly tenderness of her nature, and not im- 
possibly too he felt, as men of uncertain purpose 
often feel, a certain pique at the more determ- 
ined and resolute character of a Avoman’s mind. 
Again and again did he Avish for some little trait 
of mere affection, something that should be- 
token, if not an indifference, a passing forget- 
fulness of the great Avorld and all its splendors. 
But no ; all her thoughts soared upAvard to the 
high station she had set her heart on. Of Tvhat 
they should be one day Avas the great dream of 
her life — for they Avere already betrothed by the 
Cardinal’s consent — and of the splendid path 
that lay before them. 

The better to carry out his OAvn views Mas- 
soni had always kept up a special correspond- 
ence with Guglia, in Avhich he expressed his 
hopes of success far more Avarmly than he had 
ever done to Gerald. Her temperament Avas 
also more sanguine and impassioned, she met 
difficulties in a more daring spirit, and could 
more easily persuade herself to Avhatever she 
ardently desired. The Pere had only pointed 
out to her some of the obstacles to success, and 
ev'en these he had accompanied by such ex- 
planations of hoAV they might be met and com- 
bated that they seemed less formidable, and the 
great question between them AA^as rather when 
than hoAv the grand enterprise was to be begun. 


136 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


“Though I am told,” wrote he, “that the 
discontent with the House of Hanover grows 
^ daily more suspicious in England, and many 
of its once stanch adherents regret the policy 
Avhich bound them to these usurpers, yet it is 
essentially to Ireland Ave must look for, at least, 
the opening of our enterprise ; there is not a 
mere murmur of dissatisfaction — it is the deep 
thunder-roll of rebellion. Two delegates from 
that country are now with me — men of note and 
station — who having learned for the first time 
that a Prince of the Stuart family yet survives, 
are most eager to pay their homage to his Royal 
Highness. Of course, this, if done at all, must 
be Avith such secrecy as shall prevent it reach- 
ing Florence and the ears of Sir Horace Mann, 
and, at the same time, not altogetlier so uncere- 
moniously as to deprive the intervicAV of its char- 
acter of audience. It is to the ‘ pregiatissima 
Contessa Guglia,’ that I leave the charge of this 
negotiation, and the responsibility of saying ‘yes’ 
or ‘ no’ to this request. 

“Of the delegates, one is a baronet, by name 
Sir Capel Crosbie, a man of old family and good 
fortune. The other is a Mr. Simon Purcell Avho 
formerly served in the English army, and Avas 
Avounded in some action Avith the French in 
Canada. They have not, either of them, much 
affection for England — a very pardonable dis- 
loyalty Avhen you hear their story — the immi- 
nent question, hoAA^eA^er, noAV is — can you see 
them; AAdiich means — can they have this au- 
dience? 

“ You Avill all the better understand any cau- 
tion I employ on this occasion, when I tell you 
that, on the only instance of a similar kind hav- 
ing occurred, I had great reason to deplore my 
activity in promoting it. It Avas at the presenta- 
tion of the Bishop of Clare to his Royal High- 
ness, when the Prince took the opportunity of 
declaring the strong conviction he entertained 
of the security of the Hanoverian succession ; 
and, Avorse again, hoAv ineffectual all priestly in- 
trigues must eA'er proA-e, Avhen the contest lay 
betAveen armies. I have no need to say what 
injury such indiscretion produces, nor hoAv es- 
sential it is that it may not be repeated. If 
you assent to my request, I beg to leave to your 
OAvn judgment the fitting time, and, Avhat is still 
more important, the precise character of the re- 
ception — that is, as to hoAV far its significance 
as an audience should be blended Avith the more 
graceful familiarity of a friendly meeting. The 
distinguished Contessa has on such themes no 
need of counsel from the humblest of her serv- 
ants, and most doA’oted folloAver, • 

“Paul Massoxi.” 

What reply she returned to his note may 
easily be gathered from the following feAv Avords 
which passed betAveen Gerald and herself a fcAV 
mornings afterAvard. 

They Avere seated in the library at their daily 
task, surrounded by letters and maps, and books, 
when Guglia said, hastily, “ Oh, here is a note 
from the Ph*e Massoni to be replied to. He 


Avrites to askAvhen it maybe the pleasure of his 
Royal Highness to receive the visit of two dis- 
tinguished gentlemen from Ireland, avIio ardent- 
ly entreat the honor of kissing his Royal High- 
ness’s hand, and of carrying back Avith them 
such assurances as he might vouchsafe to utter 
of his feeling for those who have never ceased 
to deem themselves his subjects.” 

“Che seccatura!” burst he out, as he rose 
impatiently from the table and paced the room ; 
“if there be a mockery Avhich I can not en- 
dure, it is one of these audiences. I can sit 
here and fool myself all day long by poring 
over records of a has been, or even tracing out 
the limits of Avhat my ancestors possessed ; but 
to jday Prince at a mock levee — no, no, Guglia, 
you must not ask me this.” 

There were days Avhen this humor Avas strong 
on him, and she said no more. 

— * — \.- 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

TAVO AUSITOKS. 

A FEAA' days after, and just as CA'ening was 
falling, a traA^eling-carriage halted at the park 
gate of the Cardinal’s A'illa. Some slight in- 
jury to the harness occasioned a brief delay, 
and the traA^elers descended and proceeded leis- 
urely at a Avalk toAvard the house. One AA'as a 
A'ery large, heavily-built man, far advajiced in 
life, Avith immense bushy eyebroAvs of a brindled 
gray, giAung to his face a darksome and almost 
forbidding expression, though the mouth Avas 
Avell rounded, and of a character that bespoke 
gentleness. | He aa-us much bent in the shoul- 
ders, and moved Avith considerable difficulty; 
but there Avas yet in his Avhole figure and air a 
certain dignity that announced the man of con- 
dition. Such, indeed, Avas Sir Capel Crosbie, 
the once beau and ornatnent of a French court 
in the days of the regency. The other Avas a 
spare, thin, but yet Aviry-looking man of about 
sixty-fiA’e or six, deeply pitted with smalI-])ox, 
and disfigured by a strong squint, Avliich, as the 
motions of his face Avere quick, imparted a char- 
acter of restless activity and impatience to his 
appearance, that his nature, indeed, could not 
contradict. • He AA'as knoAvn as — that is, his pass- 
port called him — Mr. Simon Purcell ; but he 
had many passports, and Avas frequently a gran- 
dee of Spain, a French abbe, a cabinet courier 
of Russia, and a traveling monk, these traves- 
ties being all easy to one Avho spoke fluently 
every dialect of every continental language, and 
seemed to enjoy the necessity of a deception. 
You could mark at once in his gestures and his 
tone as he came forAvard, the stamp of one avIio 
talked much and Avell. There Avas ready' self- 
possession, that jaunty cheerfulness, dashed 
with a certain earnest force, that bespoke the 
man who had achicA'ed conversational success, 
and felt his influence in it. 

The accident to the harness had seemingly 
interrupted an earnest conversation, for no soon- 


“THE CIIEVALIEK.” 


137 


er on tlic p*ouncl than Purcell resumed : “Take 
my word for it, baronet ; it is always a bad 
game that does not admit of being played in 
two Avays — the tOAvns to Avhich only one road 
leads arc never worth visiting.” 

The other shook his head ; but it was diffi- 
cult to say whether in doubt of the meaning or 
dissent to the doctrine. 

“Yes,” resumed the other, “the great ques- 
tion is AYliat will you do with your Prince if you 
fail to make him a King ? lie will always be 
a ‘puissance,’ it remains to be seen in Avhose 
hands and for wdiat objects.” 

The baronet sighed, and looked a picture of 
hopeless dullness. 

“ Come, I will tell you a story, not for the 
sake of the incident, but for the illustration ; 
though even as a story it has its point. You 
knew Gustave de Marsay, I think?” 

“ Le beau Gustave ? to be siu'e I did. Ah ! 
it was itpward of forty years ago,” sighed he, 
sorrowfully. 

“It could not be less. He has been living in 
a little Styrian A'illage about that long, seeing 
and being seen by none. His adventure was 
this : He Avas violently enamored of a very pret- 
ty Avoman Avhom he met by chance in the street, 
and discoA'cred afterAA^ard to be the Avife of a 
‘ dyer’ in the Rue dc IMarais. Whether she 
Avas disposed to favor his addresses or acted in 
concert Avith her husband to punish him, is not 
very easy to say ; the result Avould incline to 
the latter supposition. At all events, she gave 
him a rendezvous, at Avhich he Avas surprised by 
the dyer himself — a felloAv strong as a Hercules 
and of an ungo\’’ernable temper. He rushed 
Avildly on De Marsay, Avho defended himself for 
some time with his rapier ; a false thrust, hoAv- 
cver, broke the weapon at the hilt, and tlie dyer 
springing forward, caught poor Gustave round 
the body, and actually carried him off over his 
head, and plunged him neck and heels into an 
enormous tank filled Avith dye-stuff. Hoav he 
escaped droAvning — hoAv he issued from the 
house and CA'er reached his home he ne\'er AA'as 
able to tell. It is more than probable the con- 
sequences of the calamity absorbed and oblit- 
erated all else ; for Avhen he aw^oke next day he 
discovered that he Avas totally changed — his 
skin from head to foot being dyed. a deep blue ! 
It Avas in vain that he Avashed and Avashed, boil- 
ed himself in hot baths, or essayed a hundred 
cleansing remedies, nothing aA^ailed in the least 
— in fact, many thought that he came out only 
bluer than before. The most learned of the 
faculty were consulted, the most distinguished 
chemists — all in A'ain. At last a dyer Avas sent 
for, who in an instant recognized the peculiar 
tint, and said, ‘Ah! there is but one man in 
Paris has the secret of this color, and he lives 
in the Rue de Marais.’ 

“ Here Avas a terrible bloAv to all hope, and in 
the discouragement it inflicted three long months 
Avere passed, De Marsay- groAving thin and 
AATetched from fretting, and by his despondency 
occasioning his friends the deepest solicitude. 


At length, one of his relatiA'os resolved on a 
bold step. He Avent direct to the Rue de Ma- 
rais and demanded to speak Avith the dyer. It 
is not very easy to say Iioav he opened a nego- 
tiation of such delicacy ; that he did so Avith 
consummate tact and skill thc-re can be no 
•doul)t, for he so Avorked on the dyer’s compas- 
sion by the picture of a poor young felloAV ut- 
terly ruined in his career, unable to face the 
Avorld — to meet his regiment — even to appear 
before the enemy, being blue ! that the dyer at 
last confessed his pity, but at the same time 
cried out, ‘What can I do? there is no getting 
it off again !’ 

“ ‘ No getting it off again ! do you really tell 
me that ?’ exclaimed the Avretched negotiator. 

“‘Impossible! that’s the patent,’ said the 
other, Avith an ill-dissembled pride. ‘I have 
spent seven years in the invention. I only hit 
upon it last October. Its grand merit is that it 
resists all attempts to efface it.’ 

“ ‘And do you tell me,’ cries the friend, in 
terror, ‘ that this poor felloAV must go doAvn to 
his grave in that odious — Avell, I mean no of- 
fense — in that unholy tint?’ 

“ ‘There is but one thing in my poAver, sir.’ 

“ ‘Well, Avhat is it, in the name of Mercy? 
Out Avith it, and name your price.’ 

“ ‘I can make him a very charming green! 
un beau A'ert, monsieur.’” 

M'hcn the baronet had ceased to laugh at the 
anecdote, Purcell resumed ; “ And noAv for the 
application. It is always a good thing in life 
to be able to become ‘ un beau vert,’ even 
though the color should not quite suit you. I 
say this, because for the present project I can 
augur no success. The AA'orld has lived won- 
derfully fast. Sir Capel, since you and ! were 
boys. That same Revolution in Prance that 
has cut oft’ so many heads, has left those that 
still remain on men’s shoulders A’ery much AA'iser 
than they used to be. Noav nobody in Europe 
Avants this family again ; they have done their 
part; and they are as much bygones as chain 
armor or a battle-axe.” 

“The rightful and the legitimate are nCA’cr 
bygone — never obsolete,” said the other, reso- 
lutely. 

“A’n't they, faith! The guillotine and the 
lantern are the ansAvers to that. I do not mean 
to say it must be ahvays this Avay. There may, 
though I see no signs of it, come a reaction yet ; 
but for the present men have taken a practical 
turn, and they accept nothing, esteem nothing, 
employ nothing that is not practical. Mira- 
beau’s last effort AA'as to give this color to the 
Bourbons, and he failed. Do not tell me, then, 
that Avhere Gabriel Requetti broke doAvn, a Jes- 
uit father Avill succeed ?” 

The other shook his head in dissent, but Avith- 
out speaking. 

“Remember, baronet, these convictions of 
mine are all opposed to my interest. I should 
bo delighted to see your fairy palace made hab- 
itable, and valued for the municipal taxes. 
Nctliing could better please me than to behold 


138 


GERALD FITZGERALD 


your Excellency mestcr of the horse, except to 
see myself Chancellor of the Exchequer. But 
here we arc, and a fine princely-looking pile 
it is !” 

They both stopped suddenh”, and gazed with 
wondering admiration at the noble facade of the 
palace right in front of them. A wide terrace 
of w'hite marble, ornamented with groups or sin- 
gle figures in statuary, stretched the entire 
length of the building, beneath which a vast 
orangery extended, the trees loaded with fruit 
or blossom, gave but slight glimpses of the rock- 
work grottoes and quaint fountains within. 

“This is not the Cardinal’s property,” said 
Purcell. “Nay, I know well what I am say- 
ing ; this belongs, with the entire estate, down 
to San Remo, yonder, to the young Countess 
Ridolfi. Nay more, she is at this very moment 
in bargain with Csesare Piombino for the sale of 
it. Her price is five hundred thousand Roman 
scudi, which she means to invest in this bold 
scheme.” i 

“She, at least, has faith, is a Stuart,” ex- 
claimed the baronet, cagerl3\ 

“What would yoii have? The girl’s in love 
with your Prince. She has paid seventy thou- 
sand piastres of Alhizzi’s debts, that have hung 
around his neck these ten or twelve years back, 
all to win liim over to the cause, just because 
his broiher-in-law is Spanish Envoy here. She 
destined some eight thousand more as a present 
to our Lady of Ravenna, who, it would seem, 
has a sort of taste for bold enterprises ; but Mas- 
soni stopped her zeal, and suggested that instead 
of candles she should lay it out in muskets.” 

“You scoff unseasonabU^, sir,” said the bar- 
onet, indignant at the tone he spoke in. 

“Nor is tliat all,” continued Purcell, totally 
heedless of the rebuke; “her very jewels, the 
famous Ridolfi gems, the rubies that once were 
among the show objects of Rome, are all packed 
up and ready to be sent to Venice, where a com- 
pany of Jews have contracted to bu}^ them. Is 
not this girl’s devotion enough to i)ut all your 
patriotism to the blush ?” 

A slight stir now moved the leaves of the 
orange-trees near where they were standing, as 
the evening was perfectly still and calm. Pur- 
cell, however, did not notice this, but went on — 

“And she is right. If there were a means 
of success, that means ■would be money. But it 
is growing late, and this, I take it, is the chief 
entrance. Let us present ourselves, if so be that 
we are to be honored with an audience.” 

Though the baronet had not failed to remark 
the sarcastic tone of this speech, he made no re- 
ply, but slowly ascended the steps toward the 
terrace. 

Already the night was closing in, and as the 
strangers reached the door, they never perceived 
that a figure had issued from the orangery be- 
neath, and mounted the steps after them. This 
was the Chevalier, who usually passed the last 
few moments of each day wandering among the 
orange-trees. He had thus, without intending 
it, heard more than was meant for his ears. 


The travelers had but to a] pear to receive the 
most courteous reception from a household al- 
ready prepared to do them honor. They were 
conducted to apartments specially in readiness 
for them ; and being told that the Countess 
hoped to have their company at nine o’clock, 
Avhen she supped, were left to re])ose after their 
journe}’. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

A WAYM’ORN ADVEXTURER. 

It was by this chance alone that Gerald knew 
of the sacrifices Gugliahad made and was mak- 
ing for his cause. In all their intercourse, mark- 
ed by so many traits of mutual confidence, noth- 
ing of this had transpired. B}' the like accident, 
too, did he learn how^ some men, at least, spoke 
and thought of his fortunes ; and what a world of 
•speculation did these t-wo facts suggest ! They 
were as tj^pes of the two opposing forces that 
ever swayed him in life. Here, was the noble- 
devotion that gaA’e all; there, the cold distrust 
that belicA^d nothing. Delightful as it had been 
for him to dwell on the steadfast attachment of 
GugliaRidolfi, and think over the generous trust- 
fulness of that noble nature, he could not turn 
his thoughts from what had fallen from Pur- 
cell ; the ill-omened Avords rankled in his heart, 
and left no room for other reflections. 

All that he had read of late, all the letters 
that AA'ere laid before him, Avere filled Avith the 
reiterated tales of Highland devotion and at- 
tachment. The most touching little episodes of 
his father’s life Avere those in Avhich this gener- 
ous sentiment figured, and Gerald had by read- 
ing and re-reading them got to believe that this 
loj^alty Avas but sleeping, and ready to be aroused 
to life and activity at the first flutter of a Stuart 
tartan on the hills, or the first Avild strains of a 
jAibroch in the gorse-clad valleys. 

And yet Purcell said — he had heard him say 
— the Avorld has no farther need of tliis family ; 
the pageant they moved in has passed by for- 
ever. The mere chance mention, too, of Mira- 
beau’s name — that terrible intelligence AAdiich 
had subjugated Gerald’s mind from very boy- 
hood — im})arted additional force to this judg- 
ment. “Perhaps it is CA'cn as he sav's,” mut- 
tered Gerald ; “ perhaps the old fire has died out 
on the altars, and men Avant us not any more.” 

WheneA'er in history he had chanced upon the 
mention of men Avho, once great by family and 
pretension, had fallen into Ioav esteem and hum- 
ble fortune, he always Avondered Avhy they had 
not broken Avith the old Avorld and its traditions 
at once, and sought in some neAv and far-off 
quarter of the globe a life untrammeled by the 
past. Some Avould call this faint-heartedness ; 
some Avould say that it is a craven part to tura 
from danger ; but it is not the danger I turn 
from ; it is not the peril that appalls me ; it is 
the sting of that sarcasm that says, who is this 
that comes, on the pretext of a name, to trouble 


1C9 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


the world’s peace, traf.x men's minds, and un- 
hinge their loyalty? What does he bring us in 
exchange for this earthquake of opinion ? Is he 
wiser, better, braver, more skilled in the arts of 
war or peace than those he -would overthrow? 

As he waged conflict with these thoughts, 
came the summons to announce that the Count- 
ess was waiting supper for him. 

“ I can not come to-night I am ill — fa- 
tigued. Say that I am in want of rest, and 
have lain down upon my bed.” Such was the 
answer he gave, uttered in the broken, inter- 
rupted tone of one ill at ease with himself 

Tlie Cardinal’s physician was speedily at his 
door, to otfer his services, but Gerald declined 
them abruptly, and begged to be left alone. At 
length a heavy step was lieard on the corridor, 
and the Cardinal himself demanded admis- 
sion. 

In the hurried excuses that Gerald poured 
forth, the wily churchman quickly saw that the 
real cause of his absence was untouched on. 

“Come, Prince,” said he, good-humoredly, 
“ tell me frankly, you are not satisfied with Gug- 
lia and myself for having permitted this man to 
come here; but I own that I yielded only to 
Massoni’s earnest desire.” 

“ And why should Masson! Iiave so insisted ?” 
asked Gerald. 

“For this good reason, that they are botli 
devoted adherents of your house ; men ready to 
hazard all for your cause.” 

Gerald smiled superciliously, and the Cardin- 
al seeing it, said — 

“Nay, Prince, distrust was no feature of your 
race, and, from what thePereMassoni says, these 
gentlemen do not deserve it.” He paused to let 
Gerald reply, but, as he did not speak, the Car- 
dinal went on : “ The younger of the two, who 
speaks out his mind more freely, is a v'ery zeal- 
ous partisan of your cause. He has worn a 
miniature of your father next his heart since 
the memorable day at Preston, when he acted 
as aide-de-camp to his Royal Highness ; and 
Avhen he had shoAvn it to us he kissed it Avith a 
devotion that none could dare to doubt.” 

“This is he that is called Purcell?” asked 
Gerald. 

“ The same. He held the rank of colonel in 
the Scottish army, and Avas rCAvarded Avith a 
patent of nobility, too, of Avhich, liOAveA^er, he has 
not availed himself.” 

Again there flashed across Gerald’s mind the 
Avords he had overheard from the orangery, and 
the same cold smile again settled on his features, 
Avhich the Cardinal noticed and said — 

“ If it AA^ere for nothing else than the close re- 
lation which once bound him to his Royal High- 
ness, methinks you might have Avished to see 
and speak with him.” 

“ And so I mean to do, sir ; but not to-night.” 

“Chevalier,” said the Cardinal, resolutely, 
“it is a time Avhen folloAvers must be concil- 
iated, not repulsed ; flattered instead of offend- 
ed. Reflect, then, I entreat you, ere you afford 
even a causeless impression of distance or es- 


trangement. On Monday last, an old Highland 
chief, the lord of Barra, I think, they called him, 
Avas refused admittance here, on the plea that it 
Avas a day reserved for affairs of importance. 
On Wednesday, the Count D’Arigny Avas told 
that you only received envoys, and not mere 
Charges d’Affaires ; and even yesterday, I am 
informed, the Due de Terracina Avas sent away 
because he Avas a few minutes behind the time 
specified for his audience. Noaa', these are trifles, 
but they leave memories Avhich arc often disas- 
trous.” 

“ If I had to render an account of my actions, 
sir,” said Gerald, haughtily, “a humiliation 
Avhich has not yet reached me — I might be able 
to giA’e sufficient explanation for all you have 
just mentioned.” 

“I did but speak of the policy of these things,” 
said the Cardinal, Avith an air of humility. 

“ It is for me to regard them in another light,” 
said Gerald, hastily. He paused, and, after a 
few minutes, resumed in a voice Avhose accents 
Avere full and Avell Aveighed: “When men haA'e 
agreed together to support the cause of orta 
they call a Pretender, they ever seem to me to 
make a sort of compromise Avith themselves, 
and insist that he Avho is to be a royalty to all 
others, inA’ested Avith every right and due of 
majesty, must be to them a plaything and a toy; 
and then they gather around him Avith fears, 
and threats, and hopes, and flatteries — uoav 
menacing, noAV bribing — forgetting the Avhile 
that if fortune should ever destine such a man 
to have a throne, they Avill have so corrupted 
and debased his nature, Avhile Avaiting for it, 
that not one fitting quality, not one rightful 
trait Avould remain to him. If history has not 
taught me Avrongly, even usurpers have shoAvn 
more kingly conduct than restored monarchs.” 

“ What would you, Prince?” said the Cardi- 
nal, sorroAvfully. “We must accept the Avorld 
as AA'e find it.” 

“ Say, rather, as Ave make it.” 

The Cardinal rose to take his leav’C, but evi- 
dently Avishing that Gerald might say something 
to detain him. He Avas very reluctant to leave 
the young man to ponder OA'er in solitude such 
a reflection as he had aA’OAved. 

“Good-night, sir, good-night. Your Emi- 
nence Avill explain my absence, and say that I 
Avill receive these gentlemen to-morroAV. What 
are the papers you hold in your hand — are they 
for mef' 

“ They are some mere routine matters, Avhich 
your RoAml Highness may look over at leisure 
— appointments to certain benefices, on Avhich it 
has been the custom to take the pleasure of the 
Prince your father ; but they are not pressing ; 
another time Avill do equally well.” 

There Avas an adroitness in this that shoAved 
hoAV closely his Eminence had studied the Stu- 
art nature, and marked that no flattery Avas 
ever so successful Avith that house as that Avhich 
implied their readiness to sacrifice time, pleas- 
ure, inclination, even health itself, to the cares 
and duties of station. To this blandishment 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


UO 

they w'crc never averse or inaccessible, and Ger- 
ald inherited the trait in all its strength. 

“Let me see them, sir,” said Gerald, seating 
himself at the table, while he gave a deep sigh 
— fitting testimony of his sense of sacrifice. 

“This is the nomination of John Decloraine 
Hackett to the see of Elphin ; an excellent 
priest, and a sound politician. He has ever 
contrived to impress the world so powerfully 
with his religious devotion, that there arc not 
twelve men in Europe know him to be the craft- 
iest statesman of his time.” 

“It is, then, a good appointment,” said Ger- 
ald, taking the pen. “ But Avhat is this ? The 
Cardinal York has already signed this.” 

In Caraffa’s eagerness to play out his game 
he had forgotten this fact, and that the Irish 
bishops had always been submitted to the ap- 
proval of his Royal Highness. 

“I say, sir,” reiterated Gerald, “here is the 
signature of my uncle. What means this, or 
who really is it that makes these appointments ?” 

The Cardinal began a sort of mumbled apol- 
ogy about a divided authority and an ecclesias- 
tical function ; but Gerald stopped him ab- 
ruptly : 

“If we are to play this farce out, let our 
parts be assigned us ; and let none assume that 
which is not his own. Take my word for it. 
Cardinal, that if the day comes when the En- 
glish will carry me to the scaffold, at Smith- 
field or Tyburn, or Avherever it be, you Avill not 
find any one so ready to be my substitute. 
There, sir, take your papers, and henceforth let 
there be no moi'C mockeries of office. I wilL 
myself, speak of this to my uncle.” • 

The Cardinal bowed submissively and moved 
toward the door. 

“You Avill receive these gentlemen to-mor- 
roAV ?” said he, interrogatively. 

“To-morrow,” said Gerald, as he turned 
away. 

The Cardinal bowed deeply, and retired. 
Scarcely, however, had his footsteps died out 
of hearing, than Gerald rung for his valet, and 
said, 

“When these visitors retire for the night, 
follow the Signor Purcell to his room, and de- 
sire him to come here to me ; do it secretly, and 
that none may remark you.” 

The valet bowed, and Gerald was once more 
alone. 

It was near midnight when the door again 
opened, and Mr. Purcell was introduced. Mak- 
ing a low and deep obeisance, but without any 
other demonstration of deference for Gerald’s 
rank, he stood patiently waiting to be addressed. 

“We have met before, sir,” said Gerald, 
flushing deeply. 

“ So I percewe, sir,” was the quiet repl}’-, 
given with all the ease of one not easily abash- 
ed, “ and the last time was at a pleasant sup- 
per-table, of which we are the only survivors.” 

“Indeed!” sighed Gerald, sadly, and with 
some astonishment. 

“Yes, sir; the ‘Mountain’ devoured the Gi- 


rondists, and the reaction devoured the ‘Mount- 
ain.’ If the present people have not sent the 
‘ reactionnaii’cs’ to the guillotine, it is because 
they prefer to make soldiers of them.” 

“And how did you escape the perils of the 
time ?” asked Gerald, eagerly. 

“ Like Mons. de Talleyrand, sir, I always 
treated the party in disgrace as if their misfor- 
tune were but a passing shadow, and that the 
day of their triumph was assured. For even 
this much of consideration men in adversity are 
grateful.” 

“ How heartily you must despise humanity !” 
burst out Gerald, more struck by the cold cyn- 
icism of the other’s look than even by his words. 

“ Not so,” replied he, in a half careless tone ; 
“Jean Jacques expected too much; Diderot 
thought too little of men. The truth lies mid- 
way, and they are neither as good or as bad as 
Ave deem them.” 

“And noAA^, Avhat is your pursuit? Avhat ca- 
reer do you folloAv ?” asked Gerald, abruptly. 

“I have none, sir; the attraction that binds 
the ruined gambler to sit at the table and watch 
the game at Avhich others are staking heavily, 
ties me to any enterprise Avherein men are Avill- 
ing to risk much. I have seen so much of high 
play in life, I can not stand by petty A'entures. 
They told me at Venice of the plot that Avas 
maturing here, and I agreed Avith old Sir Capel 
Crosbie to come over and hear about it.” 

“You little suspected, perhaps, Avho was the 
hero of the adventure ?” said Gerald, half doubt- 
ingly. 

“Nay, sir, I saw your picture, and recognized 
you at once.” 

“I neA’er knew there had been a portrait of 
me !” cried Gerald, in astonishment. 

“It AA'as taken, I fancy, during your illness ; 
but the resemblance is still complete, and re- 
calls to those Avho kneAv the Prince, your father, 
every trait and lineament of his face.” 

“You, yourself, knew him?” said Gerald, 
feelingly. 

A deep, cold boAv Avas the only acknowledg- 
ment of this question. 

“They told me you Avere one of his trusted 
and truest friends ?” 

“We Avore each other’s miniature for many 
a year ; our happiness Avas to talk of Avhat might 
haA-e chanced to be our destiny had he Avon 
back the throne that Avas his right, and I suc- 
ceeded to Avhat my father’s gold should have 
purchased. I sec I am alluding to Avhat you 
never heard of. You see before you one Avho 
might haA'e been a King of Poland.” 

Gerald stared in half-credulous astonishment, 
and the other went on : 

“You have heard of the Mississippi scheme, 
and of Law, its founder?” 

“Yes.” 

“ My grandfather Avas LaAv’s friend.^d con- 
fidant. By their united talents zeal the 
great plot was first conceived arid.-^ matured. 
Law Avas at first but an indifferent Frenjjlr schol- 
ar, and even a worse courtier. My gthjpdfather 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


141 


•was an adept in botli, and knew, besides, the 
Duke of Orleans well. They were as much 
companions as the distance of their stations 
could make them ; and by my grandfather s in- 
fluence the Duke was induced to listen to the 
scheme. On what mere accident the great 
events of life depend ! It was a party of 
‘ quinze’ decided the fate of Europe. The Duke 
lost a hundred and seventy thousand^ livres to 
my grandfather, and could not pay him. While 
he was making excuses for the delay, my grand- 
father thought of Law, and said, ‘Let me pre- 
sent to your Royal Highness to-morrow morn- 
ing a clever friend of mine, and it will never be 
your fortune again to own that you have not 
money to any extent at yo-ur disposal.’ Law 
appeared at the Duke’s levee the next morning. 
It is not necessary to tell the rest, only that 
among the deepest gamblers in that memorable 
scheme, and the largest winners, my grandfa- 
ther held the first jflace. Such was the splen- 
dor of his retinue one day at Versailles that the 
rumor ran it was some sovereign of Southern 
Europe had suddenly arrived at Paris, and the 
troops turned out to render royal honors to him. 
When the Duke heard the story he laughed 
lieartily, and said, ‘ Eh bien, c’est un Gage du 
succes’ — a motto upon our family name, which 
was Gage, my uncle being afterward a viscount 
by that title. 

“Within a very short time after that inci- 
dent — which, some say, had so captivated my 
grandfather’s ambition that he became feverish 
and restless for greatness — he oftered three mil- 
lions sterling for the crown of Poland. You 
may remember Pope’s allusion to it : 

‘"The Crown of Poland, venal twice an age, 

To just three millions stinted modest Gage.” 

“The contract was broken off by my grand- 
father's refusal to marry a certain Countess 
Horatynski, a natural daughter of the king. He 
then made a bidding for the Throne of Sardinia ; 
but, while the negotiation was yet pending, the 
great edifice of Law began to tremble ; and 
wdthin three short weeks, my grandfather, from 
the owner of six millions sterling, was reduced 
to actual beggary. 

“He attained a more lasting prosperity later 
on, and died a grandee of Spain of the first 
class, haying highly distinguished himself in 
council and the field. 

“ It is not in any vaingloriousness, sir, I have 
related this story. Of all the greatness that 
once adorned my house, these threadbare clothes 
are sorry relics. We were talking of life’s re- 
verses, however, and, probably my case is not 
•without its moral,” 

Gerald sat silently gazing with a sort of ad- 
miration at one who could, with such seeming 
calm, discuss the most calamitous accident of 
fortune. 

“ How thoroughly you must know the wrrld !” 
exclaimed he at last. 

“Ay, sir; in the popular acceptation of the 
phrase I do know it. Plenty of good and plenty 
of bad is there in it, and so mingled and blended 


that there is nothing rarer in life than to find 
any nature either all lovable or all detestable. 
There are dark stains in the fairest marble, so 
are tliere in natures the world deems utterly 
depraved touches of human sentiment whose 
tenderness no poet ever dreamed of. And if I 
were to give you a lesson, it would be — never be 
over-sanguine ; but never despair of humanity ! ” 

“As you drew nigh the villa this evening,’’ 
said Gerald, slowly, and with all the deliberation 
of one approaching a theme of interest, “I 
chanced to be in the orangery beneath the ter- 
race. You were speaking to your companion 
in confidence, and I heard you say what augur- 
ed but badly for the success of my cause. Your 
•words made so deep an impression on me tljat 
I have asked to see and speak •^vith you : teli 
me, therefore, in all frankness, -vvhat you know, 
and, in equal candor, what you think about this 
enterprise.” 

“What claim have I upon your forbearance 
if I say what may be ungracious? How shall 
I hope to be forgiven if I tell you what is not 
pleasant to hear?” 

“The Avord of one who is evell weary of delu- 
sions shall be your guarantee.” 

“ I accept the pledge.” 

He walked three or four times up and down 
the room, to all seeming in deep deliberation 
with himself, and then, facing full round in front 
of Gerald, said, 

“You w'ere educated at the convent of the 
Jesuits — are you a member of the order?” 

“No.” 

“Have they made no advances to you to be- 
come such ?” 

“None.” 

“It is as I suspected,” muttered he to him- 
self; then added aloud, “They mean to em- 
ploy you as the French king did your father. 
You are to be the menace in times of trouble, 
and the sacrifice in the day of terms and accom- 
modations. Be neither.” 

With this he Avaved his hand in farewell, and 
hastily left the room. 

< 0 . 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A FOREST RIDE. 

Gerald passed a restless, disturbed night. 
Purcell’s words, ever ringing in his ears, fore- 
boded nothing but failure and disaster, Avhile 
there seemed something almost sarcastic in the 
comparison he drCAV betAveen the Prince Charles 
Edward’s rashness and his OAvn Availing, delay- 
ing policy. “Is it fair or just,” thought he, 
“ to taunt me with this? I Avas not bred up to 
know my station and my claims: None told 
me I was of royal blood and had a throne for a 
heritage. These tidings break on me as I am 
worn down by misfortune and broken by illness, 
so that my shattered intellects scarcely credit 
them. Even noAV, on what, or on Avhom, do I 
rely ? Has not disease undermined my strength 


142 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


and distrust my judgment, so that I believe in 
nothing, nor in any body ? Ah, Requetti, your 
])oisons never leave the blood till it has eeased 
to circulate.” 

There were days when the Avhole plan and 
scheme of his life seemed to him such a mock- 
ery and a deception that he felt a sort of scorn 
for himself in believing it. It was like child- 
hood or dotage to his mind, this dream of a 
greatness so far off, so impossible, and he burn- 
ed for some real actual existence with truthful 
incidents and interests. Gloomy doubts would 
also cross him, whether he might be nothing but 
a mere tool in the hands of certain crafty men 
like Massoni, who having used him for their 
purpose to-day would cast him off as worthless 
to-morrow. These thoughts became at times 
almost insupportable, and his only relief against 
them was in great bodily fatigue. It was his 
habit when thus to mount his horse and ride at 
speed into the forest. The deep pine-wood was 
traversed in various directions by long giassy 
alleys of miles in extent ; and here, save at the 
very rarest intervals, no one was to be met with. 
It is not easy to conceive any thing more sol- 
emn and gloomy than one of these forests, where 
the only sound is a low, sighing cadence as the 
wind stirs in the pine-tops. A solitary black- 
bird, perchance, may warble her mellow song in 
the stillness, or, as evening closes, the Availing 
cry of the oavI be heard ; but except for these 
the stillness is deathlike. 

Whole days had Gerald often passed in these 
leafy solitudes, till at length he grcAv to recog- 
nize, even in that apparent uniformity, certain 
spots and certain trees by Avhich he could calcu- 
late his distance from home. Taa'o or three little 
clearings there were also Avhere trees had been 
felled and small piles of brushAVOod Avere form- 
ed ; these were his most remote Avanderings and 
marked the place Avhence he turned his steps, 
homeward. 

On the morning we now speak of he rode at 
such reckless speed that in less than tAvo hours 
he had left these familiar places far behind and 
penetrated deeper into the dense AA’ood. To- 
Avard noon he dismounted to relieve his some- 
Avhat wearied horse, and Avalked along for hours, 
a strange feeling of pleasure stirring his heart at 
the thought of his utter loneliness ; for there is 
something in the mind of youth that attaches it- 
self eagerly to any thing that seems to savor of 
the adventurous. And the mere presence of a 
ncAV object or a ncAV situation Avill often suffice 
for this. Gradually on he went, his mind calm- 
ed doAA'n and the fever of his brain abated ; pas- 
sages of the poets he best loved rose to his mem- 
ory, and he repeated verses to himself as he 
strolled along, his mind unconsciously drinking 
in the soothing influences that come of solitude 
and reverie. 

MeanAvhile the day Avore on, and although no 
sense of fatigue oppressed himself, he Avas Avarn- 
cd by the blood-red nostrils of his horse and his 
draAvn-up flanks that the beast needed both food 
and Avatcr. 


It was a rare occurrence to chance upon the 
tiniest stream in these tracts, so that he had 
nothing for it but to push forward and trust that 
after an hour or so he might issue beyond the 
bounds of the Avood. Again in the saddle, his 
mettled horse carried him gallantly along Avith- 
out any show of distress ; but although he rode 
at a sharp pace there seemed little prospect of 
emerging; and the same tall avenue of dark 
stems still lined the Avay, and the same dusky 
foliage spread above his head. If he had but 
presciwed a direct line he Avas aacII aware that 
he must be able to traverse the forest in its very 
Avidest part Avithin a day, so that he noAA^ urged 
bis horse more briskly to gain the open country 
before night-fall. For the first time, hoAVCA'cr, 
the animal shoAved signs of fatigue, and Gerald 
Avas fain to get doAvn and lead liim. Half 
dreamily lost in his OAvn thoughts he moved 
unconsciously along, Avhen suddenly a blaze of 
golden light startled him, and looking up he suav 
that he had emerged from the Avood and Avas 
standing on the crest of a grassy hill, from Avhich 
he could see miles of open country at his feet 
backed by the Maremma Mountains, behind 
which the sun Avas fast sinking. It was that true 
Italian landscape Avhich to eyes only accusiomcd 
to the scenery north of the Alps has ahvays a 
character of hardness, and even bleakness; but 
as by time and frequency this impression dies 
aAvay such scenes possess an attractiA^eness une- 
qualed by all other lands. There Avas the vast 
]jlain, traversed by its Avinding rhmlet, its course 
only traceable by the pollard willows that mark- 
ed the banks ; Avhile forests of olives alternated 
Avith mulberry plantations, around and betAA'een 
Avhuh the straggling vines Avere trcllised. On 
the hot earth, half hid by floAvers of many a gor- 
geous hue, lay great yelloAV gourds and pump- 
kins, as though throAvn to the surface in a flood 
of rich abundance ; and far aAvay in the dis- 
tance the mountains closed in the vicAA', their 
summit capped AAUth villages, or, perchance, 
some rugged old castellated ruin of centuiics 
back. 

IloAV Avas it that Gerald stoed and gazed at 
all these like one spell-bound? Why Avas that 
scene not altogether neAV to his eyes ? Why did 
he folloAV out that little road, noAV emerging 
from the olives and noAV lost again, till it gain- 
ed the stream, Avhere by a rude wooden bi idge 
it crossed ? How is it that the humble mill yon- 
der, Avhose laggard Avheel scarce stirs the Avater, 
seems to him like some old familiar thing ? And 
Avhy does he strain his sight in vain to see the 
z'gzag road up the steep mountain side? It 
Avas because a flood of old memories Avere rush- 
ing full upon his mind, bringing up boyhood and 
“ long ago.” That w^as the very path by Avhich 
he set out to seek his fortune, Avhen scarcely 
more than a child he fled from the villa ; there 
was the wide plain, through Avhich he had toil- 
ed weary and foot-sore : in that little copse of 
fruit-trees, beside the stream, had he slept at 
night ; there, where a little cross marks a shrine, 
had he stopped to cat his breakfast ; around the 


“THE CHEVALIER.” 


ilS 


head of that little lake ha 1 he wended his way 
toward the mountains. 

If at first these memories arose faintly, like 
the mere outlines of a dream, they grew hy de- 
grees bolder and stronger. His boyish life at 
the Tana then rose before him ; tlie little room 
in which he used to sit, and read, and ponder ; 
then the narrow stair by which he would creep 
noiselessly down to stroll out at night and wan- 
der all alone beside the dark lake, and then the 
dusky pine-wood, through whose leafy shades 
Gabriel would be seen emerging as the evening 
closed in. 

“ I will see them all once more,” cried he, 
aloud ; “I will go back over that scene, calling 
up all that I can remember of the past ; I will 
try if my heart has kept the promise of its boy- 
ish hopes, and see if I have wandered atvay 
from the path I once destined for myself. ’ 
There was a marvelous fiiscination in the real- 
ity of all he saw and all the recollections it 
evoked, after that life of fictitious station an 1 
mock greatness in wdiich he had been living of 
late. 

He who has not tried the experiment for him- 
self can not believe the extent of that view ob- 
tained into his own nature from simply revisit- 
ing the scenes of boyhood. Till we have gone 
back to the places themselves, we can never re- 
alize the life we led there ; how Ave felt in that 
long ago; what we thought of; Avhat we am- 
bitioued. 

Wonderful messengers of conscience are these 
same old memories ; the little garden we used 
to dig; the narrow bed we slept in; our old 
bench at school, deep graven on the heart, Avith 
all its thrilling incidents of boyisli life ; the path- 
way through the floAvery meadoAV down to the 
stream, Avherc Ave used to bathe ; the little sum- 
mer-house under the honeysuckles, Avhere Ave 
heard or invented such marAmlous stories. Rely 
upon it there is not one of these unassociated 
Avith some high hopes, some generous notion, 
some noble ambition ; something, in short, Avhich 
Ave meant to be, but never realized ; some path 
we intended to folloAV, but strayed from in that 
Avild and tumultuous conflict aa'C call life. 

Guided by the little river, on Avhich the set- 
ting sun Avas noAV shedding its last lustre, Ger- 
ald walked along beside his horse, and just as 
the night Avas falling reached the mill. To his 
great surprise did ho learn that he Avas full fifty 
miles from Orvieto, for though he had passed an 
entire day, from earliest daAvn, on the Avay, he 
had ncA’er contemplated the distance he had 
come. As it Avas not an unusual occurrence for 
special couriers with dispatches to pass by this 
route toward the Tuscan frontier, his appear- 
ance caused little remark, and he Avas invited to 
sit down at the millers table Avhen the house- 
hold assembled for supper. 

“You arc bound for St. Stephano, I’ll AA'ar- 
rant,” said the miller, as he stood looking at 
Gerald, Avho bedded doAvn his tired beast. 

Gerald assented with a nod, and went on Avith 
his work. 


“ If I Avere you, then, I’d not take the low road 
by the Lago Scuro at this season.” 

“ And Avhy so ?” 

“Just for this reason : they have got malaiia 
fever up in the mountains, and the refugees Avho 
live up there, for safety against the carabinieri, 
are obliged to come doAvn into the plains, and 
they troop the roads here in gangs of twenty and 
thirtAg making the country insecure after night- 
fall.’’ 

“They are brigands, then?” a ked Gerald. 

“E\-ery man, ay, and every Avoman of them! 
They respect neither priest nor prefect. What 
think you they did three weeks ago at Somar- 
ra? A traveling company of players coming 
through the tOAvn obtained leaA'e from the De!c- 
gato to give a representation. The theatre Avas 
crammed, as you may Avell believe, such a pleas- 
ure not being an CA^eryday one. Well, the or- 
chestra had finished the symphony and np drcAV 
the curtain, Avhen, instead of a village fete, Avith 
peasants dancing, the stage Avas crowded with 
savage-looking fclloAvs, armed to the teeth, ev- 
ery one of Avhom held a blunderbuss leveled at 
the audience. McanAvhilc the doors of the boxes 
Avere opened, and the pcojdc inside politely re- 
quested to hand out their money, Avatches, Jcav- 
cls, in fact, all that they had of value about them, 
the pit being exactly treated in the same fash- 
ion, for none could escape, as all tlic doors Avere 
held by the bandits. They carried uAvay forty- 
seven thousand francs’ Avorth for the night's Avork. 
Indeed, the Delcgato has never risen from his 
bed since it happened, and expects CA'ery day to 
be summoned to Rome, or sent off to prison at 
Viterbo.” 

“And Avhy does the Pope’s government not 
take some steps against these felloAvs ? Why are 
they suffered to ravage the Avholc country at their 
will?” 

“You must ask your master, the Cardinal, 
that qtiestion,” said the miller laughing. “It 
Avould be easy enough to hunt them doAvn, noAv 
that they’A’e got the fever in the mountains, if 
any one cared to do it; but the ‘Pasture,’ as 
they call their captain, pays handsomely for his 
])atent to rob, and he neAxr kills Avhere it can 
be aA'oided.” 

“ And Avho is this Pastore — Avhat was he ?” 

“ He Avas a monk. Some say he was once a 
monsignorc ; and he might haA'c been, from bis 
manners and language.” 

“You haA"C seen him, then ?” 

“ Seen him! per Bacco, that haA'e I, and to 
my cost ! He comes himself to take up his ‘ duo 
de Pasqua,’ as he calls his Easter-dues, Avhich 
are not the lighter that he assesses them all be-, 
fore he sits doAvn to supper.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that he AA'ould sit 
doAvn to table Avith you?” 

“Ay, and be the merriest at the board too. 
So full of pleasant stories and good songs Avas 
he, one night, that one of my boys could not re- 
sist the fascination of his company, but started 
off the next morning to join him, and has never 
returned. ’ 


144 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


If Gerald’s curiosity -was excited to learn many 
particulars of this celebrated bandit chief, the 
miller was only too happy to be questioned on a 
theme he loved so well. In his apprehension 
the Pastore was no ordinary robber, but a sort 
of agent, partly political, partly financial, of cer- 
tain great peojDle of Rome. This was a theory 
he was somewhat vain of having propounded, 
and which he supported with considerable in- 
genuity. 

The Pastore himself was described as a happy- 
looking, well-to-do man, past the yndme of life, 
but still hale and vigorous ; and, if not very act- 
ive in body, Avith considerable acuteness and a 
ready Avit. lie stood Avell in the estimation of 
the peasantry, Avho Avere always ready to render 
him little services, and to whom in return he 
Avould show his gratitude by little presents at 
the fete days or scenes of family rejoicing. 
“And as for the Cure,” said the miller, “ only 
ask him aaLo sent the handsomest chaplet for 
the head of the Madonna, or aa'Iio gaA'e the sil- 
A’cr lamp that burns at the shrine of St. Isico- 
mede ?” 

This strange blending of dcAmtional obseiw- 
ance Avith utter laAA'lessness — this singular union ' 
of bon homme Avith open violence, AA'ere features ; 
that in all his intercourse with life Gerald had j 
ncA'er met Avith ; and he Avas not a little curious j 
to see one Avho could combine qualities so in- 
compatible. I 

“I should certainly like to see him,” said lie, j 
after a pause. j 

“ Only ride that black mare thix)ugh the pass ' 
of the ‘ Capri,’ to-morroAv; let him see hoAV she | 
brushes her Avay througli the tall fern and ueA'er ^ 
slips a foot OA’er the rocky ledges, and I’ll lay 
my life on’t you’ll see him, and hear him too.” | 

“You mean to say that he’d soon replace me j 
in the saddle,” said Gerald, half angrily. I 

“I mean to say that the horse Avould change 
owners, and you be never the richer of the com- I 
];act.” 

“A bullet Avill overtake a man, let him ride ' 
CA'cr so fast,” said Gerald, calmly; “and your j 
Pastore has only to lie in ambush till he has ' 
coA'ered me, to make me a very harmless foe ; 
but I Avas thinking of a fair meeting — man to 
man”' 

A gesture of scornful meaning by the miller 
here arrested Gerald’s Avords, and the young 
man grcAV crimson Avith shame and anger to- 
gether. 

“It is easy enough to say these things, and 
hard to disproA'e them ; but if I Avere cei'taiu to 
meet this fellow alone, and Avithout his folloAv- 
ers, I’d take the road you speak of to-morroAV 
Avithout so much as asking Avhere it leads to.” 

An insolent laugh from the miller, as he arose 
from his seat, almost made the young man’s 
23assion boil over. 

“You asked about the ‘Capri’ pass — that’s a 
picture of it,” said he, as he pointed to a rude 
representation of a deep mountain gorge, along 
which a foaming torrent was Avildly dashing. 
Stunted pine-trees lined the crars. and fantastic- 


ally-shapen rocks broke the leafy outline, on 
one of Avhich the artist had drawn the figure of 
a brigand, as Avith gun in hand he peered down 
into the dark glen. 

“That is a spot,” said the miller, half laugh- 
ingly, “the Carabinieri of the Holy Father have 
never fancied ; they tried it once — I forget luvv 
many, years ago — and left eleven of their com- 
rades behind them, and since that it has been as 
sacred for them as St. John of Lateran.” 

“ But, I see no road — it seems to be a mere 
cleft between the mountains,” said Gerald. 

“Ay, but there is a road — a sort of bridle- 
path ; it rises from the A^alley and creeps along 
up yonder Avhere you see a little railing of u ood, 
and then gains that peak Avhich, Avinding around 
it, reaches a Avide table-land. I have not been 
there myself ; but they tell me hoAv from tlrat 
you can sec over the A\hole Maremma, and in 
fine AA^eather the sea beyond it, and the port of 
St. Stephano and the islands.” The miller Avas 
noAv launched upon a favorite theme, and Avent 
on to describe hoAV the smugglers, avIio paid a 
sort of black mail for the privilege, usually took 
this route from the coast into the interior. It 
saved miles and miles of road, and Avas besides 
perfectly safe against all molestation. As it led 
direct to the Tuscan frontier, it Avas also select- 
ed by all Avho made their escape from Roman 
prisons. “To be sure,” added he, “it is less 
frequented noAV that the Pastore is likely to l.c 
met Avith ; for as it is all chance Avhat huim r he 
may have on him, none like to risk their lives 
in such company.” 

Though Gerald AA'as aAvare that “Brigandage” 
Avas a Roman institution — a regularly covenant- 
ed service of the State, by Avhieh no inconsider- 
able reAtenue readied the hands of some veiy 
exalted individuals, he had ncA'cr before heard 
that these outlaAvs AV’cre occasionally emploved 
as actual agents of the Government to arrest and 
detain traA'elers against Avhom suspicion rested, 
to rifle foreign couriers of the dispatches thov 
carried to the ministers ; noAv and then it Avas 
CA'en alleged that they had broken into strong 
places to destroy documents by Avhich guilt could 
be proved or innocence established — all of these 
services being of a nature little likely to reA\ ard 
men for the peril had they not acted under or- 
ders from above ! There might possibly have 
been much exaggeration in the account the mill- 
er gave of these men’s lives and functions, but 
there Avas that blending of incident and fact Avith 
his theorizings, that certainly amazed Gerald 
and interested him deeply. It Avas, to be sure, 
no small aid to the force of the narrative that 
the yelloAv moonlight Avas noAv streaming full 
upon one side of the A’ery scene Avhere these 
characters acted, and that from the little Avin- 
doAv Avhere he sat he could look out upon their 
mountain-home. “See,” said the miller point- 
ing toAvard a high peak, “Avhere you see the 
fire yonder there is an encampment of some of 
them ! You can judge noAv hoAv little these fel- 
loAvs fear being surprised.” As Gerald con- 
tinued to gaze a second and then a third flame 


145 


“THE CHEVALIER. 


shot up from the summits of other hills farther 
off, suggesting to the miller that these were 
certainly signals of some kind or other. 

“ There ! rely on’t, they’ve work on their 
hands up yonder to-night,” said the miller ; 
and having pointed out his room to Gerald, he 
arose to retire. “It will, maybe, cost many a 
penance, many a pater, to wipe oft' what will be 
done ’twixt this and daybreak;” and with this 
pious speech he left the room. 


CHATTER XXIX. 

“ IL PASTORE.” 

After the first few moments of astonishment 
which followed Gerald’s awaking, to see himself 
ill a strange place, ivitli strange and novel ob- 
jects around him, his first thought was to re- 
turn to Orvieto. lie pictured to himself all the 
alarm his absence must have occasioned, and 
imagined how each in turn would have treated 
the event. The angry astonishment of the Car- 
dinal, ready to adopt any solution of the mys- 
tery that implied intrigue and plot — the haughty 
indignation of the Contessa, that he had dared 
to take any step unauthorized by herself — the 
hundred rumors in the household — the ques- 
tionings as to who had saddled and prepared 
his horse, what road he had taken, and so on. 

There are natures — there are even families — 
in which a strong predominating trait exists to 
do or say whatever creates astonishment or at- 
tracts wonder. It is a distinct form of selfish- 
ness, and Avas remarkably conspicuous in the 
House of Stuart. They all liked much to be 
objects of marvel and surprise ; to have men 
hang in wonderment over their words or their 
motives, and speculate with ingenuity to un- 
ravel their secret intentions. 

To Gerald himself this taste ivas a perfect 
passion, and he loved to sec couriers arriving 
and departing in hot haste, while groups of eager 
loutigers questioned and guessed at what it all 
might mean. He liked to fancy the important 
place he thus occupied in men’s tlioughts, and 
would any day have been willing to encounter 
an actual danger could he only have assured 
himself of it being Avidely discussed. This 
dramatic tendancy Avas strongly marked in the 
character of Charles Edward ; still the actual 
events of his life Avere in themselves sufficiently 
adA'enturous to display it less prominently ; but 
he CA'cr delighted in these stage effects Avhich 
strike by situation or a picturesque costume. 
Gerald inherited this trait, and experienced in- 
tense delight in its exercise. He fancied his 
Eminence the Cardinal, balancing between fear 
and anger, sending out emissaries on CA'ery side, 
asking counsels here, rejecting suggestions there, 
while Guglia, too haughty to confess astonish- 
ment, Avould be lost in conjecturing Avhat had 
become of him. If it should be wondered at 
tliat Gerald felt no more tender sentiment to- 
ward the lovely Countess Avith Avhom he had 
. K 


been closely domesticated, and Avho enjoyed so 
fully all the confidence of his fortunes, let us 
OAvn frankly that it Avas not his fault ; he did 
his very best to be in Ioa'C Avith her, and for 
that A'ery reason, perhaps, he failed ! Not all 
the infection in the Avorld Avill enable a man to 
catch a contagious malady, nor all his precau- 
tions suffice to escape it ; so is it Avith loA^e. 
Gerald saAv in her one Avho Avould have adorned 
the highest station : she A\ms eminently beauti- 
ful, and Avith a grace that Avas a fascination, she 
possessed to perfection those arts Avhich charm 
in society, and had that blending of readiness 
in repartee Avith a sort of southern languor tliat 
makes a rare element of captivation ; and yet 
A\ith all this he did not fall in love. And the 
reason Avas this : Guglia had none of those sud- 
den caprices, those moods of exorbitant hope or 
dark despondency, those Auolent alternations of 
temperament Avhich suggest quick resoh'C, or 
quicker action. She AA'as calm — too calm ; re- 
fiectiAm — too reflective — and, as he thought, in- 
finitely too much occupied in preparing for e\'ent- 
ualities either to enjoy the present or boldly dare 
the future. These traits of hers, too, AA^ounded 
his self-loA'C ; they made him feel inferior to 
her ; and he smarted under counsels and advice 
Avhich came Avith the authority of dictations. A 
casual AA’Ound to his pride also aided this im- 
pression : it Avas an accidental AA'ord he had once 
overheard, as she Avas Avalking one evening Avith 
the Cardinal in an alley of the garden adjoining 
one in Avhich he Avas standing. They had been 
discussing his fortunes and his character; and 
she remarked, Avith a certain bitterness in her 
tone, as if contradicting some hopeful anticipa- 
tion of her uncle. “Non, caro zio non. E piu 
capace de farsi Prete.” “No, my dear uncle, 
more likely is he to turn priest!” Strange and 
significant Avords from one Avho held that order 
in depreciation, and could even dare to avoAv 
this estimate to one of themseh^es. 

These Avords neAxr left Gerald’s mind ; they 
flashed across him as he aAVoke of a morning ; 
they broke upon him as he lay thinking in his 
bed ; they mingled with his speculations on the 
I future ; and, more fatally still, came to his mem- 
ory at moments when, seated at his side, she 
j inspired hopes of a glorious destiny. Again and 
again did he ask himself, hoAv Avas it that es- 
teeming him thus she Avas Avilling to join her 
fate to his ? And the only ansAver Avas one still 
more AA’Ounding to his self-loA'e. 

What if she should have totally miscon- 
strued this weak, uncertain nature ? What if 
she should have misinterpreted this character so 
full of indecision ? Hoaa’, if this Avould-be priest 
Avere to turn out one reckless in daring, and in- 
different to all consequences ? Hoav, if the next 
tidings she Avere to hear of me Avere from some 
far-aAvay country — some scene that might show 
hoAV cheaply I held the tinsel decoration of a 
mock station — the miserable pretension to a 
rank I AAms never to enjoy! “At all eA'ents,” 
said he, “they shall have matter for their spec- 
ulations, and shall not see me for some days to 


14G 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


come.” And with this determination — rather 
like the resolve of a pettish child than of a grown 
man — he sauntered into the mill, where the mill- 
er was now busily engaged. 

“Your master’s dispatches have nothing very 
pressing in them, I see,” said the miller; “I 
scarcely thought to have met you this morn- 
ing.” 

“I have ample time at my disposal,” said 
Gerald; “so that I can reach St. Stephano 
some day within the coming week I shall be soon 
enough ; insomuch that I have half a mind to 
gratify the curiosity you have excited in me and 
make a short ramble through the mountains 
yonder.” 

“ Nay, nay, leave that track to your left hand ; 
follow the road by the head of Lago Scuro, and 
don’t run your neck into peril for nothing.” 

“But you told me last night this Pastore was 
never cruel when it served no purpose ; that he 
was far readier to help a poor man than to rifle 
him. What should I fear then ?” 

“That he might look into the palm of your 
hand and see that it was not one much used to 
daily labor. If he but thought you a spy, per 
Bacco, I’d not be in your shoes for all the jew- 
els in the Vatican !” 

“ Couldn’t you manage to disguise me as one 
of your own people, and give me some sort of a 
letter for him ?” 

“By the way, there is a letter for him these 
four days back,” said the miller, suddenly ; “ and 
I have had no opportunity of sending it on.” 

“There, then, is the very thing we want,” 
broke in Gerald. 

“Here’s the letter here,” said the miller, tak- 
ing the document from the leaves of a book. 
“It comes from the Ursuline Convent, on the 
other side of the Tiber. Strange enough that 
the Pastore should have correspondence with 
the holy ladies of St. Ursula. It was a monk, 
too, that fetched it here, and his courage failed 
him to go any farther. Indeed, I believe that 
picture of the Capri pass decided him on turn- 
ing back.” 

“The greater fool he. He ought to have 
known that the Pastore was not likely to re- 
quite a good office with cruelty,” said Gerald. 

“ As to that, it would depend on what humor 
he was in at the moment.” Then, after a pause, 
he added, “If you like to risk the chance of 
finding him in a good temper, you have only to 
borrow a coat and cap from one of my boys, and 
take that letter. You will tell him that it was 
I sent you on with it, and he’ll ask no farther 
question.” 

“And these hands of mine that you said 
would betray me,” said Gerald, “what shall I 
do to disguise them ?” 

“ Some fresh walnuts will soon color them, 
and your face too ; and now let me direct you 
as to the road you’ll take.” And so the miller, 
drawing Gerald to the window, began to de- 
scribe the route, pointing out various prominent 
objects as landmarks. 

Having acquainted himself, so far as he could. 


with all the details of the way, Gerald proceeded 
to costume himself for the expedition, and so 
completely had the dye on his skin and the 
change of dress metamorphosed him, that for a 
second or two the miller did not recognize him. 

With a touch of humor that he rarely gave 
way to, Gerald saluted him in rustic fashion, 
while in a strong peasant accent he asked if his 
honor had no farther commands for him. 

The miller laughed good-humoredly, and 
shook his hand in adieu. “I more than sus- 
pect the black mare Avill be mine,” muttered he, 
as he looked after Gerald till he disappeared in 
the distance. 

For miles and miles of the way Gerald walk- 
ed on without any attention to the scene around 
him ; the spirit of adventure occupied his mind 
to the exclusion of all else, and he not only im- 
agined every possible issue to the present ad- 
venture, but fancied what his sensations might 
have been were it his fortune to have been 
launched upon the great enterprise to wdiich his 
hopes so long had tended. “ Oh, if this were 
but Scotland or Ireland,” thought he; “if my 
foot now only trod the soil that I could call my 
own ; if I could but realize to myself once, even 
once, the glorious sense of being recognized as 
one of that race that once ruled there as sover- 
eigns ; if I could but taste the intoxication of 
that generous devotion that through all his ca- 
lamities once cheered my father, I’d think the 
moment had repaid me for all the cares of life. 
And now it has all passed away like a dream. 
As Purcell said, ‘They want us no longer!’ 
We belong to the past, and have no significance 
in the present ! Strange, sad, mysterious des- 
tiny!” There was a humiliation in that feel- 
ing that gave him intense pain ; it was the sense 
of being cut off from all sympathy, estranged 
from the wishes, the hopes, the ambition of his 
fellow-men. Out of an isolation like that it was 
that Gabriel Requetti had taught him to believe 
men achieve their greatest successes. You must 
first of all feel yourself alone, all alone in life, 
ere you can experience that liberty that ensures 
free action. 

This was one of his axioms that he loved to 
repeat; and whether suggested by the scene 
where he had first met that wmnderful man, or 
merely induced by the course of reflection, many 
of Mirabeau’s early teachings and precepts rose 
to his memory as he went along. 

For some time he had been unconsciously as- 
cending a somewhat steep mountain path, so 
deeply imbedded between two lines of thick 
brushwood as to intercept all view at either side, 
when suddenly the way emerged from the dense 
copse and took the mountain side, disappearing 
at a jutting promontory of rock around which it 
seemed to pass. As his eye followed the track 
thus far he saw the flutter of what seemed a 
scarlet banner ; but on looking longer discov- 
ered it was the gay saddle-cloth of a mule, from 
which the rider had apparently dismounted. 
He had but just time to mark this much ere the 
object disappeared beyond the rock. 


“THE chevalier;’ 


117 


Cheered to fancy that some other traveler 
might chance to he on the same road with him- 
self, he now hastened his steps. The way, how- 
ever, was longer than he had supposed, and on 
gaining the promontory he descried the mule 
fully two miles away, stealing carefully along 
over the rugged bridle-path on the mountain. 
The object became now a pursuit, and he strain- 
ed his eyes to see if by some by-path he could 
not succeed in gaining on the chase. While 
thus looking he saw that two figures followed 
the mule at a little distance, but what they were 
he could not ascertain. 

It was very unlikely that any of the “Pas- 
tore’s” followers would have adopted a gear so 
striking and so easily seen as this bright trap- 
ping, and so Gerald at once set the travelers 
down as some peasants returning to their homes 
in the Maremma, or on pilgrimage to some re- 
ligious shrine. ^ 

With no small exertion he so far gained upon 
them as to be able to note their appearance, 
and discover that one was a monk in the dusky 
olive-colored frock of the Franciscan, and the 
other a woman, dressed in some conventual cos- 
tume which he did not recognize. He could 
also see that the mule carried a somewhat cum- 
brous pack, and an amount of baggage rarely the 
accompaniment of a traveling fi'iar. 

Who has not felt his curiosity stimulated by 
some mere trifling circumstance when occurring 
in a remote spot, which, had it happened on the 
world’s crowded highway, would have passed 
unnoticed? It was this strange attendant on 
these wayfarers that urged Gerald to press on 
to overtake them. Forgetting the peasant cos- 
tume which he wore, and the part it thus be- 
hooved him to pursue, he called out, in a tone 
of half command, for them to stop, till he came 
up. 

“Halt,” cried he, “and tell me if this be 
the way to the Capri Pass ?” 

The monk turned hastily, and stood until 
Gerald approached. 

“You speak like one accustomed to give his 
orders on these mountains, my son,” said he, in 
a tone of stern reproof; “so that even a poor 
follower of St. Francis is surprised to be thus 
accosted.” 

By this time Gerald had so far recovered his 
self-possession as to see how he had -compro- 
mised his assumed character, and in a voice of 
deep submission, and with a peasant accent, he 
answered — 

“I ask pardon, worthy Fra, but traveling all 
alone in this wild region has so overcome me 
that I scarcely know what I say, or understand 
what I hear.” 

“Whence do you come?” asked the Friar, 
rudely. 

“ From the Mill, at Orto-Molino.” 

“And whither are you going?” 

“To St. Stephano, after I have delivered a 
letter that I have here.” 

“To whom is your letter addressed, my 
son ?” said the Fra, in a more gentle voice. 


With clifficulry did Gerald repress the sharp 
reply that was on his lips, and say — 

“It is for one that neither you nor I know 
much of — 11 Pastore.” 

“I know him well,” said the Friar, boldly; 
“and say it without fear of contradiction, I am 
the only one he makes a shrift to — ay, that does 
he, ill as you think of him,” added he, as if 
answering the half-contemptuous smile on Ger- 
ald’s face. “Let’s see your letter.” 

With an awkward reluctance Gerald drew 
forth the letter and shotved it. 

“Ah !” cried the Fra, eagerly, “he had been 
looking for that letter this many a day back ; 
but it comes too late now.” 

As he said this he pressed eagerly forward 
and whispered to the nun who was walking at 
the side of the mule. She looked back hurried- 
ly for an instant, and then as rapidly turned her 
head again. They continued now to converse 
eagerly for some time, and seemed totally to 
have forgotten Gerald, as he walked on after 
them ; when the Fra turned suddenly round, 
and said — 

“ I’ll take charge of your letter, my son, while 
you guide our sister down to Cheatstone, a little 
cluster of houses you’ll see at the foot of the 
mountain ; and if there be an answer I’ll fetch 
it to-morrow, ere daybreak.” 

“Nay, Fra, I promised that I would deliver 
this with my own hands ; and I mean to be no 
worse than my word.” 

“You’ll have to be, at least, less than your 
word,” said the Friar, “for the Pastore would 
not see you. These are his days of penance 
and mortification, and I am the only one dare 
approach him.” 

“I am pledged to deliver this into his own 
hand,” said Gerald, again, calmly. 

“You may have said many a rash thing in 
your life, but never a rasher than that,” said 
the Fra, sternly. ‘ ‘ I tell you again, he’ll not 
see you. At all events, you’ll have to find the 
road by your own good wits, and it is a path 
that has puzzled shrewder heads.” 

With this rude speech, uttered in the rudest 
way, the Fra moved hastily on till he overtook 
his companion, leaving Gerald to follow how he 
pleased. 

For some time he continued on after the oth- 
ers, vainly straining his eyes on every side for 
any signs of a pathway upward. The way 
which he had trod before, with hope to cheer 
him, became now wearisome and sad. He was 
sick of his adventure, out of temper with his 
want of success, and dissatisfied with himself. 
He at last resolved that he would go no farther 
on his track than a certain little olive copse 
which nestled in a cleft of the mountain, reach- 
ing which he would repose for a while, and then 
retrace his steps. 

The sun was strong and the heat oppressive, 
insomuch that when at length he gained the 
copse, he w'as well pleased to throw himself 
down beneath the shade and take his rest. He 
had already forgotten the Franciscan and his 


US 


GERALD FITZGERALD, 


fellow-traveler, and was deeply musing over his 
own fortunes, when suddenly he heard their 
voices, and, creeping noiselessly to the edge of 
the cliff, he saw them seated at a little w'cll, be- 
side which their breakfast w^as spread out. The 
woman had thrown back her hood and showed 
now a beautiful head, whose long, black hair 
fell heavily on either shoulder, wLile her taper 
fingers, covered with many a sjdendid ring, plain- 
ly showed that her conventual dress was only a 
disguise. Nor was this the only sign that sur- 
prised him, for now he saw that a short, brass 
blunderbuss, the regular weapon of the brigand, 
lay close to.,the Friar’s hand. 

“It is the Pgstore himself,” thought Gerald, 
as he gazed down at the brawny limbs and w^ell- 
knit proportions of the monk. “ How could I 
ever have mistaken him for a friar?” The 
more he thought over the Friar’s manner — his 
eagerness to get the letter, and the careless in- 
difference afterward with which he suffered 
Gerald to leave him — the more he felt assured 
that this was no other than the celebrated chief 
himself. 

“At least, I have succeeded in seeing him,” 
thought he ; “ and why should I not go boldly 
forward and speak to him?” The resolve \vas 
no sooner formed than he proceeded to execute 
it. In a moment after he had descended the 
cliff, and, making his way through the brush- 
wood, stood before them. 

“ So, then, you will track me, youngster,” 
said the Friar, angrily. “Once — twice — to-day 
the road Avas open to you to seek your own way, 
and you would not take it. How bent you must 
be to do yourself an ill turn.” 

“You are ‘II Pastore,’ ” said Gerald, boldly. 

“And thou art Gherardi, mio,” cried the 
woman, as she rushed, wildly toward him and 
clasped him in her arms. It was Marietta her- 
self who spoke. 

How tell the glorious outburst of Gerald’s joy, 
as he overpoAvercd her with questions — whence 
she came, whither going, how and why, and 
Avherefore there? Was she really and truly the 
Egyptian who had visited him on his sick-bed, 
and not a mere vision ? 

“And was it from thy lips, then,” cried he, 
“that I learned that all this ambition was but 
a snare — that I was destined to be only the tool 
of crafty men, deep in their own designs ? At 
times the revelation seemed to come from thee, 
and at times a burst of heart-felt conviction. 
Which was it,:Marietta, mia?” 

“ Who is he ?” cried the Fra, eagerly. ‘ ‘ This 
surely can not be. Ay, but it is the Prince — 
the son of my old lord and master!” and he 
knelt and kissed Gerald’s hands over and over 
again. “ He knows me not — at least, as I once 
was — the friend, the boon companion, of a king’s 
son,” continued he, passionately. 

“Were you, then, one of his old Scottish fol- 
lowers — one of those faithful men who clung so 
deAmtedly to his cause ?” 

“ No, no ; but I was one that he loved better 
than them all.” 


I “And you. Marietta, dearest, how is it that I 
! see you here?” cried Gerald, again turning to her. 

“ I came many a Avcary mile after you, mio 
Caro,” said she. “ I knew of these men’s de- 
signs long, long ago, and I determined to save 
you from them. I believed I could have se- 
cured Massoni as your friend ; but I was Avrong 
— the Jesuit Avas stronger in him than the man. 
I remained at St. Ursula months after I might 
haA'c left it, just to sec the Pere — to Avatch his 
' game — and, if possible, attach him to me ; but I 
j failed — utterly failed. He AAns true to his cause, 
i and AA’ould not accept my Ioa’c. More fortunate, 
hoAvcA'ci’, Avas I with the Cardinal — CA^en, per- 
haps, than I Avished or cared for — His Eminence 
AA'as my slave. There was not a secret of the 
Vatican I did not learn. I read the correspond- 
ence Avith the Spanish minister, Arazara ; I sug- 
gested the replies ; I heard the nvhole plan for 
your expedition — how you AA'ere to be secretly 
! married to the Countess Ridoxd, and the mar- 
j riage only avoAvcd when yoi.r success ’Avas as- 
sured.” 

She paused, and the Fra broke in — “ Tell him 
all — every thing — the mine has exploded noAv, 
and none are the Avorst for it. Go on Avith your 
confession.” 

“It is of the other alternati\'e he speaks,” 
said she, dropjnng her A’oice to a faint Avhispcr. 
“ Had yo.u 'failed ” 

“And then — Avhat then. Marietta?” 

“YouAA’ere in that case to have been betray- 
ed infofthe hands of the English, or poisoned ! 
The scheme to accomplish the first w'as already 
planned. I have here the letters Avhich are to 
accredit me to see and converse Avith Sir Horace 
Mann, at Florence ; and Avhich I mean to de- 
liver too. l am resoh’ed to trace out to the very 
last Avho are the accomplices in this guilt. The 
Avorld is Avell edified by tales of mob violence 
and bloodshed. EA^en genius seeks its inspira- 
tion in inA'^eighing against popular excesses. It 
is time to sIioav that crimes lurk under purple as 
Avcll as rags, and that the deadliest vengeances 
are often devised beneath gilded ceilings. We 
kncAV of one once, Gherardi, who could have 
told men these truths — one who carried from 
this Avorld Avith him the ‘ funeral trappings of 
the monarchy’ and the Avail of the ])eople. 

Of Avhom did she speak?” asked theFria”. 

“ Of Gabriel Requetti, Avhom she loved,” and 
the last Avords AA'cre Avhispered by Gerald in her 
ear. 

Marietta held doAvn her head, and as she coa'- 
ered her face with her hands muttered — “But 
Avho loved not her!” 

“ Gabriel Requetti,” broke in the Friar, “had 
more of good and bad in him than all the saints 
and all the devils that ev'er Avarred. He had the 
best of principles and the Avorst of practices, and 
never did a Avicked thing but he could shoAv yq^ 
a virtuous reason for it.” 

/ Struck by the contemptuous glance of Mari- 
etta, Gerald folloAved the look she gaA'C, and saAv 
that the Friar’s eyes Avere bloodshot, and his f::ce 
purple Avith excess. 


“THE CHEVALIEK.” 


]49 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THK END. 

From Marietta Gerald heard how, with that 
strange fatality of inconsistency which ever 
seemed to accompany the fortunes of the Stu- 
arts, none proved faithful followers save those 
whose lives of excess or debauchery rendered 
them valueless ; and thus the drunken Fra, 
whose wild snatches of song and ribaldry now 
broke in upon the colloquy, was no other than 
the Carmelite monk, O’Kelly, the once associate 
and corrupter of his father. 

In a half-mad enthusiasm to engage men in 
the cause of his Prince he had begun a sort of 
recruitment of a legion who were to land in 
Scotland or Ireland. The means by which he 
at first operated were somewhat liberally con- 
tributed to him by a secret emissary of the fam- 
ily, whom O’Kelly at length discovered to be 
the private secretary of Miss Walsingham, the 
former mistress of Charles Edward. Later oh, 
however, he found out that this lady herself was 
actually a pensioner of the English government, 
and in secret correspondence with Mr. Pitt, who, 
thi*ough her instrumentality, was in possession 
of every plan of the Pretender, and knew of his 
daily movements. This treacherous intercourse 
had begun several years before the death of 
Charles Edward, and lasted for some years aft- 
er that event. 

Stung by the consciousness of being duped, 
as well as maddened by having been rendered 
an enemy to the cause he sought to serve, 
O’Kelly disbanded his followers, and took to the 
mountains as a brigand. With years he had 
grown only more abandoned to excess of every 
kind. All his experiences of life had shown 
little beyond baseness and corruption, and he 
had grown to care for nothing beyond the en- 
joyment of the passing hour, except when the 
possibility of a vengeance on those who had be- 
ti'ayed him might momentarily awake his pas- 
sion, vand excite him to some effort of vindictive 
anger. . . 

In his hours of mad debauchery he would 
rave about landing in England, and a plan he 
had conceived for assassinating the king ; then 
it was his scheme to murder Mr. Pitt, and some- 
times all these were abandoned for the desire to 
make Miss Walsingham herself pay the penalty 
of her base and unwomanly treachery. 

“ He came to our convent gate in his garb of 
a friar to beg,” said Marietta. “I saw him 
but for an instant, and I knew him at once. 
He was one of those who, in the ‘ red days’ of 
the revolution, mocked the order he belonged 
to by wearing a rosary of playing-dice ! and he 
recognized me as one who had even more shame- 
lessly exposed herself.” A deep crimson flush 
covered her face and neck as she spoke, and as 
quickly fled, to leave her as pale as a corpse. 
“ Oh, Mio Caro,” cried she ; “ there are intoxi- 
cations more maddening to the senses than those 
of drinking; there are wild fevers of the mind, 
wlicn degradation seems a sort of martyrdom ; 


and in the very depth of our infamy and shame 
we appear to ourselves to have attained to some- 
thing superhuman in self-denial. It was my 
fate to live with one who inspired these senti- 
ments.” She paused for a few seconds, and 
then, trembling on every accent, she said : “to 
win his love, to conquer the heart that would 
not yield to me, I dared more than ever wom- 
an, far more than ever man dared.” 

“ Here’s to the king’s buffoon, and a bumper 
toast it shall be,” burst in the friar, with a 
drunken ribaldr}'; “and if there are any will 
not drink it, let him drink to the minister’s mis- 
tress.” 

To the sudden gesture which Gertild’s anger 
evoked. Marietta quickly interposed her hand, 
and, in a low, soft voice, besought him to re- 
main quiet. 

“ If the cause were up, or the cause were down, 

Wliat matter to you or to me ; 

For though the Piiuce had played his crown, 

. Our stake was a hare bawbee I” 

sung out O’Kelly, lustily. “Who’ll deny it? 
Who’ll say there wasn’t sound reason and phi- 
losophy in that sentiment? None knew it bet- 
ter than Prince Charlie himself.” 

“And was this man the companion of a 
Prince?” whispered Gerald in her ear. 

“Even so; fallen fortunes bring degraded 
followers,” said Marietta. “ I have heard it 
said that his father’s associates were all of this, 
stamp.” 

“And how could men hope to restore a cause 
thus contaminated and stained?” cried he, some- 
what louder. 

“ That’s what Kinloch said,” burst in O’Kel- 
ly ; “you remember the song, 

“ The Prince he swore, on his broad claymore, 

That he’d sit in his father’s chair, 

Put there wasn’t a man, outside his clan. 

That wanted to see him there, boys. 

That wanted to see him there.” 

“A black falsehood, as black as ever a traitor 
uttered,” cried Gerald, whose passion burst all 
bounds. 

“Here’s to the traitors — hip, hip. To the 
traitors, for it was — 

“ The traitors sat in St. Cannes’s hall, 

And feasted merrily there, 

"While the tired men slept in the long, wet grass- 
And tasted but sorry fare, boys, 

Tasted but sorry fare. 

“ Oh, if I’d a voice, and could have my choice, 

I know with whom I’d be, 

Not the hungry lads, with their threadbare plaids, ^ 
Put the lords of high degree, boys, ^ ' 

The lords of high degree.” r • 

“And so thought the Prince too,” cried he out, 
fiercely, and in a tone meant for an insolent de- 
fianee. “He liked the easy life and the soft 
couch of St. Germains far better than the long 
march and the heather-bed in the Highlands.” 

“ How long must I endure this fellow’s in- 
solence?” whispered Gerald to Marietta, in a 
voice trembling with passion. 

“For. my sake, Gherardi,” she began; but 
the Fra overheard the words, and with a drunk- 
en laugh broke in, 

' “If you have a drop of Stuart blood in you, 


' — 


J50 


^ - 

GERALD FITZGERALD, “THE CHEVALIER.” 


you’ll yield to the woman whatever it is she 
asks.” 

Stung beyond control of reason, G;erald sprung 
to. his feet ; but before he could even approach 
the Era, the stout friaMiad grasped his short 
blunderbuss and cocked it. 

“ Another step — one step more, and if -yoii 
were the anointed King himself, instead of his 
bastard, I’ll send you. to your reckoning.” 

With a spring like the bound of a tiger, Ger- 
ald dashed at him ; but the Fra was prepared, 
and, raising the weapon to his side, he fired. 
A wild, mad cry, blended with the loud report, 
echoed in many a mountain gorge, and the 
youth fell dead on the sward. 

Marietta threw herself upon the corpse, kiss- 
ing the lifeless lips, and clasping her arms around 
the motionless clay. With every endearing 
word she tried to call him back to life, even for 
a momentary consciousness of her devotion. 
The love she had so long denied him, she now 
offered ; she would be his and his only. With 
the wild eloquence of a mind on fire, she pic- 
tured forth a future, now brightened with all 
that successful ambition could confer, now bless- 
ed with the tranquil joys of some secluded ex- 
istence. Alas ! he was beyond the reach of 
either fortune. The last of the Stuarts lay still 
and stark on the cold earth, his blue eyes star- 
ing the strong sun without a blink. 

When some peasants passed on the following 
clay they found Marietta seated beside the dead 
body, the cold hand clasped within both her 
own, and her eyes riveted upon the features ; 
her mind was gone, and, save a few broken, in- 
distinct mutterings, she never spoke again. 

As for the Era, none ever could trace him. 
Some allege that he dashed over the precipice 
and was killed; others aver that he sailed that 
same night from St. Stephano for America, 
where he was afterward seen and recognized by 
many. 

Of the tragic event itself a few lines in the 
correspondence of Sir Horace Mann is the sole 
record in existence : 

“Any anxiety,” wrote he, “we might ever 
have felt on the score of a certain individual, 
alleged to have been the legitimately-bom son 
of Charles Edward, is noAV over. He was mur- 
dered last week — killed in a drunken brawl by a 
friar, who, it is said, had once been a favorite 
follower of the Prince. Many doubted that 
there was any, even the slightest claim on his 
part to Stuart blood ; but Mr. Pitt was not of 
this number. He had taken the greatest pains 


to obtain information on the subject, and had, 
I am told, in his possession, copies of all the 
documents which substantiated the youth’s right. 
I have myself been enjoined, upon more than 
one occasion, to find out some channel by which 
pecuniary assistance might be tendered to him 
without his being able to trace it. This com- 
mission, I believe, originated with his Majesty. 
Of the youthful Prince-; — for as such we must 
regard him — the most widely opposite accounts 
have reached me. By some his qualities were 
highly estimated ; others deemed him fair, fickle, 
and a debauchee, corrupted by the vices of the 
revolutionary period, and tainted with all the 
worst opinions of Jean Jacques’s followers ; and, 
lastly, a few there were who pronouced him in- 
sane — an oinnion I am far from participating in. 
Indeed, many of the traits recorded of him re- 
dound no less to his moral than intellectual 
gifts. 

“With all the acuteness that marks Mr. 
Pitt’s mind, he has prepared for one of those 
eventualities, not by any means improbable un- 
der the circumstance of this youth’s death ; and 
I found among, my official instructions a direc- 
tion to have a formal document, stating the 
mode and manner of that event, attested by 
whatever "witnesses there might be, and so cir- 
cumstantial as to place it beyond dispute or even 
discussion. The possibility that another might 
be substituted for him, or that some adven- 
turer would assume the name and station for 
mere personal objects, were what the minister 
feared.” 

Strangely enough this anticipation, after a 
long lapse of years, was destined to be realized ; 
and a Pretender arose, who called himself the 
lawful son of Charles Edward. 

The writer of these lines has himself met him, 
and in a society which acknowledged his pre- 
tensions, and gave him the high title of his as- 
sumed rank. There were in his case many per- 
sonal advantages that favored the illusion, and 
a most remarkable resemblance to the Vandyk 
portraits of Charles. Not impossible is it that 
the traits had suggested the personation, ad- 
mirably sustained by all the aids of dress and 
noble carriage. 

The imposture is, after all, a harmless one. 
The days of the Jacobites are over, and the cause 
as completely forgotten, and its interests faded 
from men’s minds, as fully as the little C3q)ress- 
tree has withered and wasted that once marked 
the grave of Fitzgerald the Chevalier — the last 
of the Stuarts ! 



V 


THE END. 

















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